Family · Holidays · Life

This Is Eight

It’s a birthday tradition, jumping on top of Mom in bed at an ungodly hour, and Elias did not disappoint.

This is eight. The boundless energy that shows up as blurry limbs in photos.

“Mom,” he said this morning, quiet because it was early and he’s learned some things about his mother, “there are presents.” I groaned something about presents happening at breakfast, and he disappeared.

A hot second later, he was back. A little more intense. “MOM. Can I go get all the booster seats out of the cars?” Permission granted. He’s finally eight, and he’s certainly at the weight recommendation. The height, too. We measured today, and he’s just a hair taller than his brother was at nine. We met his birth mother just the one time. At 4’9″, she was one of the few adults I’ve ever towered over. Based on this, I’ve been warning him that he may not grow to be very tall, but I don’t know what to tell him anymore. Possibly his birthfather was eight feet tall. Hard to say.

This is eight. The unbridled glee at, oh, everything. I must have lived my life like that once upon a time, throwing my heart over fences and never worrying about a landing, but I can’t remember what it feels like.

This is eight. A lungful of air  for the win, and the biggest piece of cake, served first.

“This was the best thing today, Mom,” he said, as we cleared the dishes. Not the cake. He liked that, but cake comes around more than once a year. Just this once, though, today only and deal gone tomorrow, was the very best thing.

He didn’t have to eat any of the vegetables with dinner.

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