And Now You Are Eight

Eight years ago, I was in the hospital. Waiting for you. After losing your brother the year before, you were anxiously awaited in every aspect from conception to birth. We prayed for you. Family and friends prayed for you. I'm fairly certain that strangers prayed for you. You were, it seems, prayed into existence.

We didn't know all kinds of things about you. We didn't know if you were a boy or a girl. We didn't know how big you would be. We didn't know if you'd be fair like your older sister or darker like your older brother. Who's nose would you have? Who's eyes? Would you be a good sleeper? A good eater? We had no idea.

There were things about you that we did know, however. We knew you got the hiccups. A lot. We knew you were strong and an awesome kicker. We knew that if I ate anything remotely spicy, you would make me pay for it by giving me a round of heartburn that would keep me awake for hours. Mostly, we knew that even though we knew very little about you, we loved you deeply--would give up everything for you. How many times in your life can you say that about someone you hardly know? I can count 5 times--Maggie, James, Joseph, you and your little sister Mary. It's pretty amazing really.

When you were born, the first words your daddy said were: "Skin me! It's a boy!!" And we knew immediately that we would call you Sean Patrick. Your daddy's name reversed. You were perfect and blond and handsome. The nurses nicknamed you "Surfer Boy" because of your very blond hair and your slight jaundice.

As you grew, you loved the baby swing; were hypnotized by it, in fact. It was comical. Turn on the swing, put you in, and in short order your little eyes would glaze over and your body would still. You loved to eat. You had the biggest thighs of any baby I've ever seen. You daddy loved to lay you on your back and then try to see your head over your belly. Made him laugh every time.

You had a hemangioma birthmark on your head. People often commented about it, but we knew, because your sister had one that it would fade and your hair would cover it. I knew it was where God kissed you before He whispered His love for you in your ear and sent you on your way to us. All that's left of that mark, is one pink freckle--and it's covered by your beautiful curls.

When you wrinkled your forehead as a baby, you had seven wrinkles. You still do. I love to remind you of this. It always makes you smile. And I love to make you smile.

You smile when I tell you co-opted the knock knock joke "Knock, knock. Who's there? Boo. Boo who? Aww, it's okay. Don't cry!" Into your own version. We'd say "knock, knock" and you, speaking around your passie would say "BOO! BOO!"

You smile when I tell you how you would run through the house saying "EIEIO! EIEIO! EIEIO!" Or how you would say "Go gack gack" when we were saying "no tag backs" in the punchbuggy game.

You smile when I call you Cinnamon Boy. You are my sweet Cinnamon Boy. Your freckles are sprinkled over your pretty skin like cinnamon over cream. I love each one.

You have always been my "all the way" child. You do nothing half way. (Except cleaning your room...) You are happy or angry--all the way. You love someone without reservation--all the way. You play with all you've got. You are a fierce friend. You are stubborn. You are generous. You are tender-hearted. You are funny.

What a good and perfect gift you are, my son! I thank God everyday for making me your mommy. And just remember, like I whisper in your ear at night, you are my favorite Sean.

Happy Birthday, Seannie-Buck! I love you.