To My Beautiful Son at Seven

Dear Alex,

You turned seven this week. Seven. A lucky number. Seven lucky years ago the midwife laid your perfect little body in my arms and I never wanted to stop holding you, stop watching you, stop being amazed just to see your chest rise and fall and your eyes open and look out at your new world.

I still feel that way.

At seven, you exclaim, "Sweet!" when you like something. You have a quick temper that frequently lashes out at me. But when you are tired or when you are unsure, your strong, growing body still melts into mine and you whisper, "I love you" in the quietest of voices as I breathe in the scent of your hair - the smells of running and playing and sand and lake water and wild berries. The scent of the sun at its most blazing glory.

At seven, you love all things technology and that is your dad in you. But you also love all things nature. You can find herbs growing wild in the forest. You seem to have an instinct for edible berries. You declared the one cherry tomato that managed to survive our weed-choked garden the best food you have ever tasted. You are an inspiring chef who amazes us with your artistry with food, who can't help but conncocte something new if there is more than one ingredient around, who would rather mix his juice into his berries and stick them in the freezer to see what happens than eat his breakfast as it is.

At seven, you begged for a light saber. You want to be on the Dark Side, although it is clear your heart is all good. You bicker constantly with your sister but bring her special crafts from your summer program, - bandaids and bracelets constructed from beads. She smiles and thanks you with astonishment and sincerity that makes my heart skip a beat and you smile a funny little smile you save for her alone.

At seven your life is a constant treasure hunt. Our home is filled with special sticks and stones, pieces of pottery pulled from the lake, nuts and berries. They fill the shelves of your room. They fill the bay window. They fill ziplock bags in the bottom of my purse, in my glove compartment, my old coffee cup.

At seven, you are every bit the wonder you were to me the first moment I held you in my arms. I sit and watch your sun drenched golden head - bobbing just above the water at the lake after you have jumped into the deep, deep end, watch it as you dig and construct and engineer great "foam" factories in the sand with your friends, watch it as your pour over a new comic book, watch it as you chop fruit for your latest dessert creation. You look up and catch my gaze with your startling blue eyes and I thank God again for the miracle that you are mine.

Happy, happy birthday, my sweet, sweet boy.

Love,

Mom