Three, Seven, Thirty-Seven

big

Tomorrow my firstborn child will be seven.  Seven years old!

Seven is big.  It's the year he will begin (I assume) to suspect our stories about Santa might not be all we've built them up to be.  It's the year he'll learn to read a novel - all on his own.  I predict it will be the year he truly becomes separate from me.  Just today he tried (in vain) to fold himself up so that I could cradle him like a baby.  He held my hand when we shopped this morning for last minute birthday party items. 

I anticipate all that will change this year.  Cradling and hand-holding will become extinct.  Maybe I'm wrong.  But I've looked around at children this big age, and I think I'm probably right.

On this last day of his sixth year, William is devoid of even the slightest trace of baby fat.  The cheeks that used to be so chubby and adorable now play host to equally adorable freckles.  But that's it.  The chubby is all gone.  His knees are so knobbly I fear they are wider than his actual thighs.  And his bottom?  A mere crack in his back.

He's a boy now.  A big boy.

Usually I am nostalgic, and a little sad on the eve of my children's birthdays, but this year, I find I am relaxed.  I tucked William into his bed with ease this evening.  Feeling only excitement as I anticipate his reaction to his "big gift" (A remote controlled Lego train), which will be waiting for him at the top of the stairs when he wakes in the morning (Giving him all day to build, and therefore stay out of my hair while I prepare things for his party.  Strategy!).

Only sixteen days ago, my baby girl turned three.  Which is big in itself.  I found myself going through her room recently and ridding it of All Things Baby - stray pacifiers found in the cracks of the bed, diapers left over from night-training.  And as I donated or tossed all that remained of her babydom, I felt nothing but peace and joy at what awaits us in our next chapter.

Which surprises me.

I thought I'd be sad at the prospect of the end of the diaper, pacifier era.  I thought I'd feel sadness when William told me he is "too big for Thomas the Train".

Instead I can't wait.  I love being a mother to these children.  Never before have I felt so much that I am exactly where I need to be.  Here.  With these children.  Married this this man.  Living in this house with these neighbors.

I am happy.

And therefore grateful. 

Which is why I will be glad to celebrate my own birthday in just 10 days.  It's hard to feel annoyed at turning 37 (deep wrinkles and cellulite included) when everything feels so right.