seven

Dear Hank,

I love the daylights out of you! I love the way your words and your imaginary worlds and your questions are growing with you. I love your hair, the color of fresh pressed olives, and your joyous nature, like a whole gallon in a half pint package. I love to watch a grin spread across your face, the runniest egg cracked wide open. I love to watch you feel the feeling of teaching me things, in the instructor position, the honor of you know more. 

I love your very own transcendent idea of fancy attire, a treasure chest worth of beaded bracelets dangling from your wrists. You are almost always the perfectly right amount of a bit much, your personality enshrined in so much hope. I love when you remind me that it's not what I see when I say you look handsome, but how you feel in your clothes, in your skin, that matters more. 

Still, sometimes I notice your shirt stretched anxious at the neck. Sometimes it's hard to be six, or seven. Spoiler alert, sometimes it's hard to be forty five, too.

Your current favorite color is minty blue and you're enjoying the Harry Potter book series. This year you asked for flower shaped cupcakes, and to visit the kitty cafe and a favorite downtown playground with a few close friends. Your arms, when you wrap them around me, feel higher, so you must be getting taller. And your smile is so big, if we could put it on a scale it'd be at least three quarters of your body weight. Quarters are currently one of your favorite ways to measure things. 

At night, when your head collapses on my shoulder, a thousand thoughts seem to empty with the tilt, each word a rung on the ladder toward sleep.

Do you think I'll be alive in the world of tomorrow? 

I read that some penguins poop so much you can see their poop from space, can you even believe that?

Our family played the board game Bug Bingo recently and after you drew the card for a splendid metallic mantis you said I wish my first name was Splendid.

You were invited to a birthday party at a gymnastics center recently and on the way I explained that Tucker once had a party there, and Celia too. Incredulous, you wondered if Celia could play, and I said no, describing how she could just lay in the ball pit and on a bean bag, but that she was doted on and clearly enjoyed the warmth of everyone's attention. Immobile and adored are basically the only sister stories you've ever known, and you deadpanned: classic Celia. 

Building an obviously precarious situation with wooden blocks, you announced I'm taking a lot of risks with this project.

Honestly, that's kind of how I feel sometimes, mothering you and your brothers.

After a shower you mentioned being a scientist who formulates soap, playing with colors and scents, making the whole world clean and smelling delicious. 

You basically already do that, Hank, lather the world with love. You could create potions or teach zebras to dance or eat chairs for breakfast, you could do anything.

You are a boy with happy hop-skip feet and the busiest brain.

And I feel like the luckiest mom, to be yours.

You are splendid, Charles Hanley, absolutely splendid.

Mom