He’s a newborn again – at seven
The boy is seven.
Roll the word around in your mouth for a bit, like I’ve been doing all day.
When I was seven, I was in third grade. I remember it mostly because we moved to a new town the summer before. And it was the year I got glasses.
Sawyer is in first grade. What will he remember?
We walk to school together every morning. Sawyer, Sage and me, pushing X in his stroller.
I’d like to say it’s always a nice bonding time. But it’s not. Sometimes, there is yelling. Mine. And tears. His. Sawyer doesn’t like to rush. Even when we’re late because he can’t find socks or he’s stuck in the bathroom or he’s refusing to carry his own backpack.
I think about the past year and in some ways it reminds me of the newborn phase (without the spit-up or diapers). It’s like I’m getting to know him all over again. What I thought I’d figured out a month ago – a week ago – no longer holds true.
He’s a little boy, but yet he’s not.
Maybe it’s confusing to him, too.
These are things I know:
He stops on a hike to draw pictures of the bugs he’s seen.
He always says, “Can I have one for my sister?” when treats are being handed out.
He tries the funny-looking stuff that appears on his plate.
He wants Daddy to carry him to bed.
He wants to play spy club and army guys and ride his bike and his Razor with the neighborhood kids until the sun has set, and even then, he’s not ready to come in.
He’s learned to read.
He asks, why? And he really, really wants to know.
He hugs, his head burrowed into my waist. Because that’s how tall he is now.
He smiles. Six new teeth still too big for his face.
There are dimples.
And dark chocolate brown eyes that crinkle at the corners.
I love this kid. No matter what our battles, I want him to know I am always on his side.
He is very, very needed in our little family.
I hope he always remembers that.
Happy birthday, Sawyer. Happy birthday.