Wow. Seven. SEVEN! For the last few weeks, Daddy and I have been whispering that number to ourselves and one another in amazement. Exclaiming it, sometimes. And you’ve joined the chorus yourself, Sam—“I can’t believe I’m going to be seven!” you say, before asking once again how many days it is until your birthday and then your party.
You’ve grown a lot this year. You’ve become a sure swimmer, a real skater, a two-wheelin’ biker, and a monkey-bar champion. You’re more sure on your feet, though no more interested in competitive sports this year than last. For you, “play” involves weaving stories, not scoring goals. Maybe that’s why you’ll happily serve as an enthusiastic and entertaining colour commentator for Carter’s antics with the hockey stick or soccer ball. Same for video games: you may not want the controller, but you’ll leap out of your seat with excitement as you narrate the exploits of some X-box game or another that Carter is playing. Rock Band is an exception: you’re centre stage on that one and could likely clock a week straight playing at the Morley. Mind you, Paul’s classic Star Wars figurines are still as strong a draw as they ever were.
Your love of toys — and, really, they’re “guys” — remains unchecked. You need nothing more than an action figure of any size and description to shut out the world and amuse yourself for hours in dramatic exploits that all seem to involve the same intense shaking motion and stormy sound effects. Daddy and I have long wondered what you’re enacting when you play like that, but we never want to break the spell. We exchange smiles in the front seat of the car or in the kitchen when we hear you happily lost in that imaginary world, wondering how much longer we’ll be eavesdropping on such play.
In the real world, you tend to foist that private landscape on others, laying out the shared scene and scripting their play (“N-n-n-no.. You’re not doing that, you’re doing this. And then you say this..”). It’s one of the many reasons we think you just might become a movie maker, as you long ago declared. Luckily, your friends don’t usually seem to mind taking direction, but we often remind you to give them a chance for creative input. You try, but your confidence in your sense of story and your passion for play win out. When your school group had to decide how best to stage a puppet show, you told me “Everyone picked my way, cuz I had the best ideas. But I really did listen to everyone else’s bad ideas first.” There’s the makings of an Oscar acceptance speech right there…
Oh, and you read now. I knew it was coming, but it still blows me away. In the last six months you went from reluctant sounder-outter of a few words to a confident and expressive reader of grade 2-3 material. So proud you were of your accomplishments that you looked for ways to slip your reading level into casual conversation. “I’m hungry because I didn’t have a chance to finish my lunch before going to Ms. Cooke’s room and becoming a level 22 reader.” This isn’t bragging, you see. This is the simple sequencing of events. (I brag, too.) I don’t think anything you’ve done yet has made your separateness from me more complete than learning to read has. There’s something awe-inspiring in watching you look at the world differently — as though it’s opened up just a little wider now that you can decipher it. Suddenly, you are so much more “grown up.”
But there is a lot of little kid left in you, too. You still scamper sleepily into our room at about 3:00 a.m. just about every night, wordlessly crawling up between us and sinking back into a deep sleep with your arm slung over one shoulder or another. And you won’t get out of bed in the morning without a proper wake up. If I’m already up, you’ll call out: “Mommy? Do you have time for cuddles?” I’ve never once said no, but you always ask. Cuddles are the best way to start the day. You tell me about your dreams. You verify whether it’s a school day. You go over plans for the weekend. We share a long hug and nice kiss. Then we go about the rest of the morning routine. At night, we still do towel hugs after tubs and are up to 16 named kisses in our ritual goodnight. You depend on these constants, I think, to bookend our long days apart. I’ll miss them when they fade away, but for now I’m happy that traces of my little Bunny linger on in my seven year old.
You’re usually at Carleton Heights for 9 hours a day, so we’re glad you have so many good friends there. Miki, Michael, Tristin, Connor, Brandon, Isabella and Caitlyn are among them — and are this year’s party invitees along with Carter, Anabel and Debbie’s Michael (as we call him). We can tell by the way kids flock to you at drop-off and shout their good-byes at pick-up that you’re well-liked. What’s not to love? You’re funny, kind, thoughtful, patient and generous. You’ll defend anyone against injustice, especially those who are the victims of cheaters. This has landed you in the only trouble you’ve ever been in at school, since you’ve twice come to blows to prove your point about fair play and respect. You cried later, recounting how hard you tried not to get so upset at the sight of a friend being treated unfairly. I reprimanded you for your methods, but you’ve got a good heart, which makes mine swell.
You’ve always impressed me with the depths of your feelings, but now your mind is catching up and you’re pondering big questions. A few days ago you said “I learned that every thing I want my body to do, I can only do with messages from my brain. That everything about me is connected to my brain. So I have a hard question. Am I really just my brain?” I side-stepped a little, first answering that scientists are astounded every day by what they’re finding out about our brains, that our personality and likes and dislikes seem to be all coded in there. You floored me with your reply, saying “I think that is just so, so sad.” I realized that you didn’t want to be defined by mortal grey matter, that you feel your Sam-ness in your whole self. So I added that people the world over, including many scientists, also believe that you have a soul—something that can’t be seen in x-rays but which holds all the true things about you and which endures. You smiled and visibly relaxed, saying “I like that.”
Every day, you make me marvel and fill my heart to bursting with love. You are pride and joy incarnate, Sam Ashe Arnold who is seven years old, and Daddy and I simply couldn’t imagine our lives without you. More than that, we think that your smile, your humour, your big imagination and your even bigger heart make this world a better place.
Happy birthday, my sweet and wonderful son.
You’ve grown a lot this year. You’ve become a sure swimmer, a real skater, a two-wheelin’ biker, and a monkey-bar champion. You’re more sure on your feet, though no more interested in competitive sports this year than last. For you, “play” involves weaving stories, not scoring goals. Maybe that’s why you’ll happily serve as an enthusiastic and entertaining colour commentator for Carter’s antics with the hockey stick or soccer ball. Same for video games: you may not want the controller, but you’ll leap out of your seat with excitement as you narrate the exploits of some X-box game or another that Carter is playing. Rock Band is an exception: you’re centre stage on that one and could likely clock a week straight playing at the Morley. Mind you, Paul’s classic Star Wars figurines are still as strong a draw as they ever were.
Your love of toys — and, really, they’re “guys” — remains unchecked. You need nothing more than an action figure of any size and description to shut out the world and amuse yourself for hours in dramatic exploits that all seem to involve the same intense shaking motion and stormy sound effects. Daddy and I have long wondered what you’re enacting when you play like that, but we never want to break the spell. We exchange smiles in the front seat of the car or in the kitchen when we hear you happily lost in that imaginary world, wondering how much longer we’ll be eavesdropping on such play.
In the real world, you tend to foist that private landscape on others, laying out the shared scene and scripting their play (“N-n-n-no.. You’re not doing that, you’re doing this. And then you say this..”). It’s one of the many reasons we think you just might become a movie maker, as you long ago declared. Luckily, your friends don’t usually seem to mind taking direction, but we often remind you to give them a chance for creative input. You try, but your confidence in your sense of story and your passion for play win out. When your school group had to decide how best to stage a puppet show, you told me “Everyone picked my way, cuz I had the best ideas. But I really did listen to everyone else’s bad ideas first.” There’s the makings of an Oscar acceptance speech right there…
Oh, and you read now. I knew it was coming, but it still blows me away. In the last six months you went from reluctant sounder-outter of a few words to a confident and expressive reader of grade 2-3 material. So proud you were of your accomplishments that you looked for ways to slip your reading level into casual conversation. “I’m hungry because I didn’t have a chance to finish my lunch before going to Ms. Cooke’s room and becoming a level 22 reader.” This isn’t bragging, you see. This is the simple sequencing of events. (I brag, too.) I don’t think anything you’ve done yet has made your separateness from me more complete than learning to read has. There’s something awe-inspiring in watching you look at the world differently — as though it’s opened up just a little wider now that you can decipher it. Suddenly, you are so much more “grown up.”
But there is a lot of little kid left in you, too. You still scamper sleepily into our room at about 3:00 a.m. just about every night, wordlessly crawling up between us and sinking back into a deep sleep with your arm slung over one shoulder or another. And you won’t get out of bed in the morning without a proper wake up. If I’m already up, you’ll call out: “Mommy? Do you have time for cuddles?” I’ve never once said no, but you always ask. Cuddles are the best way to start the day. You tell me about your dreams. You verify whether it’s a school day. You go over plans for the weekend. We share a long hug and nice kiss. Then we go about the rest of the morning routine. At night, we still do towel hugs after tubs and are up to 16 named kisses in our ritual goodnight. You depend on these constants, I think, to bookend our long days apart. I’ll miss them when they fade away, but for now I’m happy that traces of my little Bunny linger on in my seven year old.
You’re usually at Carleton Heights for 9 hours a day, so we’re glad you have so many good friends there. Miki, Michael, Tristin, Connor, Brandon, Isabella and Caitlyn are among them — and are this year’s party invitees along with Carter, Anabel and Debbie’s Michael (as we call him). We can tell by the way kids flock to you at drop-off and shout their good-byes at pick-up that you’re well-liked. What’s not to love? You’re funny, kind, thoughtful, patient and generous. You’ll defend anyone against injustice, especially those who are the victims of cheaters. This has landed you in the only trouble you’ve ever been in at school, since you’ve twice come to blows to prove your point about fair play and respect. You cried later, recounting how hard you tried not to get so upset at the sight of a friend being treated unfairly. I reprimanded you for your methods, but you’ve got a good heart, which makes mine swell.
You’ve always impressed me with the depths of your feelings, but now your mind is catching up and you’re pondering big questions. A few days ago you said “I learned that every thing I want my body to do, I can only do with messages from my brain. That everything about me is connected to my brain. So I have a hard question. Am I really just my brain?” I side-stepped a little, first answering that scientists are astounded every day by what they’re finding out about our brains, that our personality and likes and dislikes seem to be all coded in there. You floored me with your reply, saying “I think that is just so, so sad.” I realized that you didn’t want to be defined by mortal grey matter, that you feel your Sam-ness in your whole self. So I added that people the world over, including many scientists, also believe that you have a soul—something that can’t be seen in x-rays but which holds all the true things about you and which endures. You smiled and visibly relaxed, saying “I like that.”
Every day, you make me marvel and fill my heart to bursting with love. You are pride and joy incarnate, Sam Ashe Arnold who is seven years old, and Daddy and I simply couldn’t imagine our lives without you. More than that, we think that your smile, your humour, your big imagination and your even bigger heart make this world a better place.
Happy birthday, my sweet and wonderful son.
