This boy turned seven last week even though I expressly forbade him to do so.
And he did it in typical Peter style, wearing a camo baseball hat Dan got from a subcontractor years ago and that Peter has commandeered as his own, and requesting ribs, mashed potatoes and beans for his birthday dinner but then deciding he actually doesn’t like ribs after all, but thanks anyway, mom. He did it with a Lego birthday party in which thirteen first graders descended upon us, significantly ramping up the chaos factor and causing us all to comment throughout the night that every time we walked we stepped on spaghetti noodles (that menu at least was successful) and leaving me so tired I almost wept as I scrubbed the kitchen floor, but happy when I looked at my boy, my seven year old boy, sitting on the floor working on the new Lego sets. He turned seven even though I can still remember praying over him in a quiet nursery while the rest of the house slept and even though I long for those days back sometimes. He turned seven even though I fear that this year might be the one in which his freckles disappear or his teeth all fall out and give birth to those big chicklet grown up teeth that Grant has, or that he decides it’s not cool to hug his mama in school anymore or to still run off the bus to see us in the afternoon. He turned seven quietly, obsessed with Legos and the new X Wing Starfighter set he got from Nana and Papa, and working on it doggedly at the kitchen table even though it ended up being far too hard and needing a contractor’s help to complete. And this kid, who we used to call Pigpen on account of his penchant for finding dirt anywhere, and who we’ve sometime likened to parenting Eyore on account of his mood swings, he blesses us. Deep. With his smile and his curiosity and his love for his family, especially his Lucy. He blesses us with the quotes he’s given which I have written on post-it notes and stuck all over the place for that day when I might actually get time to put them in an album. Quotes like this one, “If I was ever in a laundry putter awayer contest I would lose by last place. I’m serious.” (intended to bend my sympathy his way in the hopes of not having to put his clothes away-didn’t work). Peter’s name means The Rock and we are eagerly awaiting front row seats for what God is going to do in this boy’s life. And we are thankful, so thankful, for the very small part we get to play in shaping this kid. And like all my kids, I wish I could lay him on the bed and curl myself around him, like we were when he was in my belly, and just lay there forever, feeling his heart beat against my chest and thinking I was keeping him safe. But God has different plans for this boy and I’m honored to get to watch. So honored. So this is me. Being real. In love with Peter.