Wow.  Just…wow.  Another year has passed, and it’s time for me to bust out my serious cap and try and write another letter to my fabulous baby AE.

Dear AE:

You turn seven today.  And in all honesty, that just boggles my mind.  There’s nothing about you that’s little anymore.  Your long legs, loose teeth and occasional smart mouth all tell me that my baby boy is a thing of the past.  I mean, you’ll always by my baby, of course, but you are by no means a baby to the world at large.  Not anymore.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again:  You amaze me.  Each and every day, you shock me by knowing something you shouldn’t, or making a leap of logic that doesn’t seem possible for someone your age.

Did you know that all this time, you’ve been teaching me?  You’re a phenomenal teacher, kid.  You truly are.  It’s because of you that I know how to do all sorts of things, like trim a squirming toddler’s fingernails or cut the hair of a screaming, crying bucking bronco.  Seriously, though.  We’re reaching that point where parenting is becoming more of a mental challenge than a physical one.  The Big Questions are coming, I can tell, and I’m not sure I’ll know how to answer them.  I was uncomfortable enough when you asked me for to define “worship” a couple of weeks ago.  I didn’t really know what to say.  I’m not religious, but I do believe in God, and I want to at least give you the tools you need to make your own informed decision.  Your Nonna fusses at me for not taking you to church.  She says you’ll start to resist if I put it off for too much longer.  She might be right, but I don’t know.  You’re still pretty laid-back and agreeable, two of your most endearing traits.

That said, I don’t ever want to force you into anything, kiddo.  You’re too smart, and it is unbelievably important to me that you get to forge your own path.  I want to guide you and answer your questions but the decisions are yours to make.  I do, however, reserve the right to say “I told you so.”  It’s a perk of motherhood, check the handbook.

I really appreciate your willingness to roll with the punches, dude.  You may have noticed by now, I’m not the most patient mom in the world.  My fuse is short and unfortunately, you tend to be on the receiving end of my temper a lot of the time.  I need to relax and remember that your cheerful boundless energy is not generally intended as an irritant.  You’re happy, and that’s a good thing.  To your credit, when I lose it and snap at you, five minutes later you’re giving me a hug and telling me you love me.  Thank you for that.  I hope you’re always so willing to forgive.

Of course, it’s not all rainbows and sunshine.  You don’t cop an attitude with your dad and me too often, which I do appreciate.  No, our issue with you is a little something I like to call Space Cadet Syndrome.  Holy freaking crap, kid.  I did not know it was possible to be that oblivious to one’s own surroundings.  Yet somehow you manage, staring slack-jawed at me when I ask you yet again to perform a routine task.  Like putting on your shoes.  Or flushing the toilet.  Can we get a handle on that, please?  Having to repeat myself eleventy-thousand times a day makes my brain start to liquefy in my skull after a while.

But overall, I’m not complaining.  If abject cluelessness is the worst we have to deal with right now, then I think you’re doing just fine.  Better than that.  Terrific, even, and I’ll take it.

Seven years old.  More than halfway to being a teenager.  You’ll be all grown up before too long.  I look forward to the rest of the journey with you, baby.

Love, Mom