eight

Dear Hank,

Happy Birthday! You have been particularly patient and forgiving this week, in terms of not being the sole center of attention. I will remember your head on my shoulder, asleep through the second half of the show. It reminded me of you as an infant, cheeks like built in pillows. You went to support Tuck three times and have the entire Sound of Music memorized now, can recite every line.

At age eight, there is so much creativity coursing through your body. And so many cartwheels in your mouth. You seem to live in the ready position, with meteoric enthusiasm for nearly every activity - the talent show, another brother event, a trip to the store. I love the way you point your smile out as far as possible, at all the people, at every new idea and invitation. I am fairly certain your aura occupies at least three zip codes and shows up on most seismographs. You play the piano like you're figuring out a puzzle with your whole body. You are friend shaped. 

There is always a pretty big project knocking around in your elementary sized package. I appreciate when you call me to the window for a "beauty emergency," filling my photo stream with bright red cardinals, the fiery sky at dusk, an elaborate, glistening web. Your big brown eyes are particularly attractive, likely because they seek beauty in others, in nature. You are learning that you suffer way more in imagination than in reality. I could write a dictionary of all the words I have used trying to describe what it feels like to be your mom. I look at you and love floods from knees to my neck.

When I forward think your future, I know you will not live alone in a house exploding with bath salts and Squishmallows and cat art. The intensity of being so full of yourself (and I do not mean that in the pejorative, I mean you are literally filled up with your you-ness) is a gift. You are a gift. Even though you were our fourth baby, you may be the one who finally, permanently, reordered the rungs on my priority ladder. The sun set later this evening, hot pink and bright orange, here and gone, and you asked us to sing at exactly 8:04*pm: eight candles on a slice of pizza and an entire palette of possibility ahead.

As you skip off toward whatever lies ahead, as you get to know the galaxies of independence and growing selfhood, may you remember you are cherished beyond measure. 

Please do let me know when you discover how to hold a moonbeam in your hand.

All my love,

Mom

* my notes show you were actually born at 9:08pm but I did not want to let you stay up that late