I don’t usually do mushy birthday posts on here, preferring instead to publicly recount my humiliations and catastrophes, I guess. But Colum just turned seven and something weird keeps happening in my chest. It’s like a squeezing sensation that’s accompanied by a lump rising up in my throat and suddenly my eyes get all wet.
What is it about seven that feels so different?
It’s his second season of t-ball. He’s rounding the bend on Grade One. Next fall he’ll be in an older hockey division. He told me that even though he still likes Dora okay, other kids in his class don’t and he gets that he’s almost too old for it. (Not that he’d ever watch anything but sports and Power Ranger reruns anyway if it weren’t for his sisters.)
He’ll reluctantly hold my hand crossing busy streets but pulls away as soon as we reach the other side. He is about to learn to tie his own shoes and ride a two wheeler, I swear! (He’s more than ready, but someone has been too busy to properly teach him.) He pours his own milk and throws his clothes in a heap on the floor just like his dad does. Sniff.
He’s not little anymore is the thing. Seven feels like the threshold between little kid and big kid. He’s still a kid, of course. He still needs supervision and help and prodding, and he’s not yet completely and utterly humiliated by my presence. (I am working on it!)
But I can’t easily pick him up anymore. He spends much more time apart from me than he does with me. His French is already better than mine after two years of French Immersion and he definitely knows way more about Star Wars than I ever will.
In many ways these next few years will be even better. Not being needed as much (or in such a time-consuming way) is liberating. He’s great company and bedtime reading is so much better than it used to be. No offense, Goodnight Moon. He’ll become ever more independent and responsible and is already able to help out with his little sisters.
It’s a good thing, I know. But if the past seven years have gone by in a blur, can you imagine the next seven years? By this time next week, he’ll be 14 years old and his voice will be changing and he’ll be the one who can pick me up.
Oh dear. Now the wetness from my eyes has spilled down my face. I’m okay. I’m okay.
I just need to remember not to wish away any more moments. They are fleeting enough as it is.