7 years of cheer

I cannot believe it's been SEVEN years since that cold December night when we made our mad dash to the hospital, arriving with little time to spare, NO time for the anesthesiologist, and barely enough time for the doctor to even don a sterile gown. You were in a big hurry to get here, and now that I know you, I'm not surprised at all.

I named you Cheer for a reason. You are full of it. Once again, you spent the year celebrating, decorating and anxiously anticipating the next holiday season. Your tired old mom is not really a festive gal, but I have no choice but to be dragged along with your mood-setting and celebrating. I even let you talk me into buying a huge inflatable igloo with penguins popping out of it for our yard display this Christmas. (Which, sadly, we did not get to use because of all the SNOW, but if I know you like I think I do, I'm sure that thing will get dragged out of the closet several times during the year, just to bring a little cheer in the long dreary days of February. Or the hot days of August. Or whenever you decide that we all need a little Christmas.)

Sometime this year you turned into a giant. I didn't really notice until you started first grade, how HUGE you are. You are one of the tallest kids. It must be all those bowls of Cheerios you are constantly eating. I am getting seriously worried about how I am going to feed you as a teenager, because at 7, you already go through several boxes of Cheerios each week. I keep telling your older brother and sister to be nicer to you, because very soon, you will be able to half-Nelson them in seconds. (Also, I imagine that one day soon, you will be able to lift heavy things, and it's ALWAYS good to have a brother who can lift heavy things.)

You never stop moving, talking, bouncing, playing, jumping. Except at night, in your bed. If you lay still for 3 seconds, you fall instantly asleep. Maybe I should have named you Inertia. You are the only kid in the house who doesn't need to be coaxed, coddled and sometimes berated into sleep. But you are up with the birds, unlike everyone else in the house. And I apologize for not being very nice at that hour of the morning. I will teach you to turn on the coffee pot this year and perhaps we can start the day off together in a slightly more civilized manner.

Your teachers love you. You listen. You follow the rules. You are a wide-eyed and eager student. It is refreshing to hear when there are skeptical, moody preteens in the house. I hope you always keep your sense of wonder. Even when you are a moody preteen. You learned to read this year. And swim. And ride a bike. You lost two teeth. FINALLY. Here's hoping the next set is better at cavity-resistance than the first one.

I also learned this year that you are quite a good actor. You can fake a stomach-ache like no one else. It's those big eyes and that serious look you get on your face. You had me fooled for the first few weeks of school. And the school secretaries just recently figured you out.

Although you are good at it, I think school can be hard for you. It confines your ability to move and create and quickly move on to the next thing. Which I guess you feel it in your gut. It's not so much a stomach-ache, but that anxious, impatient feeling that we all get when we are ready to burst out of our little boxes and discover something. Although you still have to go to school (for at least like 15 more years), I hope you don't ever lose that feeling in your gut that you need to just burst out and Do Something.

It's one of your finest qualities.

Happy Birthday, my (GIANT) baby.

Last year's birthday post.