seven on the seventh

Dear Tucker,

You are seven and I am sentimental.

Speaking of, so are you, actually. You opened a card from family in Seattle and your voice cracked a bit reading it.  You fought back tears as you shared aloud a letter from RoRo that explained the science kits you'd be receiving in the mail each month.  And when Kate gave you the book you'd circled in your Scholastic order, the one about molecules, you said so sincerely "I've been looking forward to this!"

You are seven and you are sentimental.  And you are so many other things.

You are such a wonderful mix of worldliness and innocence.  You are wise and funny and tender.
You love animals and innocence and beauty.  You avoid cruelty and conflict.
You are full of big ideas, and are far less inclined to large doses of my lap.
You are interested in elements and compounds, in zombies and mazes and knock-knock jokes.
You ask powerful questions and chuckle at funny poetry.
You are are good at math and music and you spin stories into gold.
Last night you said you might rather be an author than a scientist, and I said you could be both.
I told you about the book I just finished, the one by the neurosurgeon who strung words like pearls.
You can be both, buddy.  There is nothing you can't do.

You've had cake and pie all week, and as I've watched you blow out all the candles, always allowing your little brother to help, I've felt myself wishing for something inexpressible, for something that would make me a mother fine and worthy of you.
You are one of my greatest birthday gifts ever.  That you are here at all, healthy and thriving, not to mention kind and creative, adventurous and generous, feels like more than a miracle.
You are so special, Tucker.  And I cannot believe my good fortune to grow with you.

Shine on, sweetheart.
And know that you are always, always loved.