Happy Birthday, My Favouritest Son!

Taking a page out of my grandmother's book, I began this morning with a story about the night you were born.

Thinking to shower you with your just-born specialness and hug your heart with memories of your cuteness, I told of how you were a teensy, weensy thing and how we wrapped you up like a burrito, you with your wee little t-shirt, toque, and diaper.

"Diaper?!" you said. And you started to snigger.

Ah, seven years old. Right on schedule, it would seem, you've entered the Land of the Gross. Despite frequent time-outs for yet another thunderous fake burp and admonishments against flatulence (of the armpit variety or the more authentic), you revel in your body and its tempestuous abilities.

Life with you is equally tumultuous; somehow you manage to take up all the space in the room. Whether you're rocking it out at a dance party for one, flying through the house searching for your DS, or racing to beat your sister to the car, we always know where you are just by listening for the booms and crashes. Somehow even homework is a contact sport, with frustrated pounding of pencils and triumphant scattering of papers when you're done.

Yet despite being a whirling dervish, you absorb an astonishing amount of knowledge between rotations. You taught yourself to sound out words and read this summer, and you shouted out "45!" almost as quickly as your sister today when your dad asked how many minutes were in three quarters of an hour.

Crashing and speeding through life, and picking up new ideas with swift ease, it's probably no wonder that I'm always two steps behind you. I've long given up on being preemptory; I strive now to be able to react quickly enough after the fact to prevent any real trouble.

So it's probably understandable that, as much as I love the energy and infectious buoyancy you bring to my life, sometimes my favourite moments with you are when we're tucked up in your top bunk, you're snuggled with Ratty (your aptly-named stuffed rat), and we're a few minutes into the best part of our nightly routine when we "practice resting."

Your hair is damp from the shower and your body, sweet-smelling and worn out from its day's exertions, begins to relax. Your exhausted muscles give in to the bed's warmth, and your little hand creeps up to my neck where it still finds comfort after all these years. Your brain's lightning processing speed slows and you start to murmur softly about your plans for the next day. Your eyes droop and your breathing slows.

And then, suddenly, you're back to my teensy weensy baby again, resting next to me, innocent and trusting. All that's missing is the wee toque and tiny shirt.

And a diaper.

Snicker.