Dear R.J.,
Tomorrow you turn seven. Seven! We can already start to see who you'll be as a man (though we don't have to worry about girlfriends, broken hearts, and curfews for a few more years--thank goodness).
You’re at the break over point between Little Kid and Big Kid in school uniform sizes, play dates, sports, and education. This season will probably be the last you’ll play as your dad’s star on the Y soccer team.
Soon enough, there will be "real" coaches in your life, and we’ll both have to deal with them. I fear that these real coaches won’t take my concerns about your untied shoelaces and skinned knees nearly so seriously (mainly because their own wives will hold the dinner leverage, not me).
You’re at the break over point between Little Kid and Big Kid in school uniform sizes, play dates, sports, and education. This season will probably be the last you’ll play as your dad’s star on the Y soccer team.
Soon enough, there will be "real" coaches in your life, and we’ll both have to deal with them. I fear that these real coaches won’t take my concerns about your untied shoelaces and skinned knees nearly so seriously (mainly because their own wives will hold the dinner leverage, not me).
Play dates already include a fair share of video games, though not the scary kind just yet. Santa brought you the one thing on your list: Skylanders Trap Team. And, to be fair, you still play the game every Saturday morning. Soon enough, you’ll be asking to watch movies and use the computer, but for now, let’s continue to love little boy games of cars.
We redshirted you this year, and you’ve spent another year getting kindergarten hugs, collecting good deed pompoms, and bringing home Boomer the Bear. It was the right decision.
This spring, you watched a caterpillar transform in a glass jar—for the fourth time. You were supercharged as you told me all about the chrysalis.
I hope you never lose that sense of delight over something wonderful—even if you’ve seen that something wonderful every year that you can remember. I know that I still delight in seeing my something wonderful come downstairs with crazy hair each morning, even after seven years.
Always take pleasure in the little things, even the really little things, like Skittles.
You’re my first born. That means you bear the unfortunate burden of being my test case. I learned early on that rewards speak louder than punishment for you, and yelling steals part of your soul. You learned early on that I’m a sucker for donuts, and if you say please and ask nicely, I’ll cave in on darn near everything. We’re navigating the mother/son relationship without a GPS system, and on the day I brought you home, the hospital forgot to give me your operating manual. We muddled through.
Your diaper was the first I changed; your tears were the first I’ve dried; and your driving lessons will be my first as a parent. We survived the first two, and I suspect we’ll survive those driving lessons just fine. Firsts can be scary, but so can seconds (you’ve met your sister, right?), thirds, and lasts. Being first means I expect too much from you, and I don’t expect enough. We test each other and push each other’s buttons—good and bad. But some days—particularly the ones when you still want to hold my hand in the store—we exist in that perfect balance of just right.
Your diaper was the first I changed; your tears were the first I’ve dried; and your driving lessons will be my first as a parent. We survived the first two, and I suspect we’ll survive those driving lessons just fine. Firsts can be scary, but so can seconds (you’ve met your sister, right?), thirds, and lasts. Being first means I expect too much from you, and I don’t expect enough. We test each other and push each other’s buttons—good and bad. But some days—particularly the ones when you still want to hold my hand in the store—we exist in that perfect balance of just right.
You’re kind, even to your little sister.
You have a heart for service. We laughed when you asked if you could serve us the Thanksgiving meal; and, we peeked at each other with raised eyebrows through folded fingers when you prayed more eloquently than a first year seminary student before we ate. On a cold day, you cheerily tucked a quilt around Grandma Mary, lest she feel a chill, before you trotted upstairs for little boy games. I’m hesitant to make recommendations about your future career because I want you to do something you love without the permanent whiff of, "But when I was little, my mom always said I would…" .
When I was your age, I wanted to be a Dallas Cowboys cheerleader and a veterinarian. I hate crowds, and vets’ offices smell of Pinesol and dog hair. Things change. But, I think that your kindness and your proclivity for service are so much a part of you that you’ll find your path with those two qualities as your light.
You’re a pleaser.
You live in fear of a straight face on your chart for school, because it’s the worst thing in your world. It’s not the worst. A straight face is right in the middle. There’s a sad face, and even trips to Miss Debbie's office, but those never even enter your mind. I'm happy that your world is simple and untouched by things far worse than a straight face.
At swim lessons, you freeze. Your teeth chatter, and most days, I want to pluck you from the pool and wrap you in a furry blanket. But instead of crying, you grit your chattering teeth and pull off a magical backstroke with a grin on your face—because you know that seeing you swim well is one of my greatest pleasures.
You love ice cream, winter or summer; you get that from your mother.
Sometimes, you make me laugh intentionally, like when you run naked up the stairs wagging your booty and giggling. Sometimes, you do it unintentionally, like Monday night when you played so hard you missed your chance to run to the potty and instead pooed in the shrubs. I’ve always wanted a dog.
Sometimes, you make me laugh intentionally, like when you run naked up the stairs wagging your booty and giggling. Sometimes, you do it unintentionally, like Monday night when you played so hard you missed your chance to run to the potty and instead pooed in the shrubs. I’ve always wanted a dog.
And sometimes, you make me cry--never intentionally. That's just not your style. But every now and again, I'll sneak into your room late at night to tuck the blankets around you one more time, to sugar your cheeks once more with goodnight kisses, and to make sure there's some light casting away the darkness just a little bit.
And there you are, nearly seven years old, with your hand between the pages of your space book. And I shed a tear, or two. These aren't the first bittersweet tears I've shed in seven years, nor the second or third; and they won't be the last.
You're at the crossroads between Big Kid and Little Kid. And R.J., you're the perfect balance of just right.
Love, Kisses, and Ice Cream,
Mom
