You're seven. Wow. So we really made it this far, huh? You know, I guess I thought I'd be getting more sleep by now. People always ask me how you're doing -- what a loaded question.
Your favorite thing to do is swim, and your second favorite is driving Hot Wheels on the windowsill. You love all things sparkly and pink, and are always asking for those sequined shoes the girls are wearing when we go shopping. I can't let you do the shoe thing because people don't understand that boys like glitter, too, but I can (and did) buy you a Barbie for your birthday. I may have also splurged for the Glam Convertible. Hey, none of your Tonka trucks have seats.
I worry. I worry I am giving you too many medications. I worry I am not engaging you enough. I worry about next year and whether you will be able to maintain the progress you made in the past eight months. And most of all I worry about what happens when I'm not around to protect you. And then I have to give it to God because it's too big for me. So I want you to know that when you're out of my arms, you're in His.
Do you know what you've accomplished, my Punkin? You can write your name. You can sing the ABCs. You can get yourself a drink of water from the kitchen faucet. You can help yourself to the cookies when I'm not looking. You can stop and think before you act; you use your words more than your hands when you're upset. You can pee and poop in the potty! You can jump off the edge of the pool. You can dress yourself and feed yourself and put on your shoes. You can light up a room with your smile; you can convince a group of adults to get up and dance. You can tell me you love me without any words.
You amaze me with your resilience and your joy. You make me better. We're both working on it, this life thing, together. One day at a time with the best surprise that's ever been handed to me.
I love you.