Seven.

As in, that's what my kid is. Today. Henry is seven. Seven! I know.

A few weeks ago we were in the grocery store and he picked up a "7" candle. "Let's get this for my birthday cake," he said.

"No," I said. "I can't buy that. That, you see, is a 7."

"But that's what I'll be!" he said.

"I'm sorry. I just can't do it. Let's get two 3's and a 1!" I suggested.

"Mooooooom," he said. And threw the 7 into the cart. He's seven, after all. He doesn’t put up with my bullshit.



It appears that I must face facts: he's turning into a big kid. He calls me "Mom," now. I've caught him rolling his eyes at me. He insists that he's too old to hold my hand (then almost immediately forgets and grabs for me, and we walk like that for blocks before he remembers). He calls for me in a crowd by shouting "Alice Bradley!" He races me to the curb, and he wins. (Which, okay, isn't saying much, as I am not exactly known for my speed.) We play card games, and he lets me win. He is long-limbed and his baby teeth are falling out far too quickly for my taste and he is reading and writing and humming improvised soundtracks for his Bionicle and Lego adventures and drawing these intricate, complicated schematics that I can't begin to figure out.

He is astounding. I am telling you this completely objectively and not at all because I'm his mother. Look, I don't want to put down your kids, I'm sure they're super, but it's highly possible that I have the Greatest Child in the Universe. Anecdotal evidence strongly supports my theory, is all I'm saying. Although I have yet to conduct an extensive study. I'm going to have to look into some funding.

So far it's been a good birthday. Last weekend we had a slumber party, which we're still recovering from. (Mama's getting old and doesn't handle that sleep-deprivation thing all that well, turns out.) This morning there were pancakes and a couple of Star Wars-themed gifts. We were awarded a group hug for those. After school he's getting a Legos set and Battleship and a Calvin and Hobbes book. Don't tell him, though, it's a surprise.

Next year, he tells me, he's going to be eight. He's already making plans. I keep telling him to slow down, but he just smiles that crazy toothless smile at me, and barrels ahead.