This kid turns eight tomorrow. Unless the team of scientists I have locked in the garage crack the genetic code in time to freeze him at this age forever. But since they just sent me a text asking for more duct tape, plasma samples and some queso dip, it isn’t looking good.
And lest you think I went through all four thousand pictures in my iPhoto to find the cutest ones, I’ll have you know that it’s nearly impossible to take a bad picture of him. Except for the one where he was playing with the empty beer bottles friends had left behind. Or the one where he was bending over and making his bare buns talk. But even in those his hair is adorable and you could eat his chocolate eyes. Peter’s inability to look bad in pictures is a puzzling phenomenon. I’ll have to get the scientists to work on that too. But only after they figure out the time freezing thing.
So anyway, he’s turning eight tomorrow. I know that because he’s told me a thousand times. I know that because when I sent him off on the bus this morning I reminded him that it’s his very last day being 7. I know that because there is a pumpkin pie cooling on the counter, and not the fancy kind, but the kind Aunt Cathie makes. And there’s a Costco pizza in the fridge and a watermelon in the cupboard, and just for the heck of it and since he’s going to be spending the day with his best friends Luke and Huddy, there’s a family size bag of Twizzlers. They are family after all. I know it’s his birthday tomorrow because there is a ridiculously huge box from Amazon downstairs that I refuse to wrap and a Target bag filled with party plates and napkins and there is bacon in the fridge so he can start his day with pork.
I know because there is a teeny ache in my heart when I think that this boy who I just gave birth to (I swear it was yesterday) is another year away from fitting into my arms and falling asleep on my chest and thinking I’m his whole world. And my whole body wants to sigh when I think that he’s been here for eight years and it feels like a blink which means that the next eight will too and he’ll be driving away and I’ll be praying that he comes home safely to me.
So I’m choosing not to think of that day, but to focus on this one and the pure gift it is. That he is. And the absolute joy and privilege I have to be his mother and to watch him grow and tell him about Jesus.
This is me being real. Thankful for Peter.