Eight

Dear Grady,

Today is your eighth birthday. This morning when you woke up you told me you still felt seven, and you thought that might be because a whole year didn’t pass during the night, just one night passed, and so it makes sense that you still feel the same age. I love listening to you process thoughts. Even when those thoughts are about Minecraft.

You love to draw and make things out of paper. You go through an obscene amount of tape but you build some really impressive, intricate works of art (which your sister promptly destroys because you tend to leave your art on every surface you can find).

You are kind and thoughtful, and have a very strong sense of doing what’s right. You care deeply about your family and your friends. Sometimes I worry that this world will break your sensitive heart, but then I remember you’ve got Poppy to stomp all over anyone who dares to hurt you.

You look out for your sister, even though she’s in a very pinchy / bitey phase right now. You came with us to her most recent allergy appointment and you patiently sat for hours while the doctor ran his tests. You asked if I remembered the Epi-Pen. When you thought Poppy was having a reaction, you offered to go get the doctor. (She was fine but that’s not the point. The point is you’re eight years old and you care about more than yourself. I am so impressed by you.)

At eight years old you are knobby knees and shaggy hair and fart jokes and stuffed animals shoved under the pillow rather than on display and pages and pages of carefully drawn comic book characters and the deepest belly laugh I’ve ever heard. I can’t wait to see what the next year brings.

Grady, it’s your birthday, and I wish I could give you the moon and the stars. You’ve given me so much more.

Love,

Mama