Seven is staying up too late reading to yourself.
Seven is snuggling up next to me and being read to.
Seven is being picky about what you eat and having the verbal skills to explain exactly why you will not eat whatever gross stuff I'm serving.
Seven is finally understanding more than knock-knock jokes. (Our current favorite: Q: You know why seagulls are called seagulls?
A: Because if they flew over the bay they'd be called bay-gulls! ba-dunh-dunh!)
Seven is making your brothers and sister laugh at some of the silly things you do.
Seven is screeching when you suddenly change your mind and decide that whatever you just did isn't funny.
Seven is screeching. Alot.
Seven is wishing you had long straight hair so you could wear it in ponytails and braids and then crying over the reality that you have fairly curly and unruly hair that is best worn short.
Seven is enormous blue eyes that twinkle.
Seven is tight hugs that require grunts from both the giver and receiver.
Seven is still having a slight lisp--a lazy tongue--that makes you say your name Mary Rosth.
Seven is stubborn. Oh, so stubborn.
Seven is speaking your mind and telling others exactly how things are--feelings be damned.
Seven is loving Jesus with your whole heart and not understanding how others don't.
Seven is singing. And singing. And singing.
Seven is being willing to watch your brothers play video games just to be included with the big kids.
Seven is nervousness about the approaching school year with all of its changes: new school, new teachers, bus rides, school lunches, new friends.
Seven is me wondering where the time went, what happened to that sweet little toddler that carried her stuffed dog around by its ear.
Seven is me stunned by your insights and amazed at your intelligence. Seven is me held in awe at what you were and who you are becoming.
Seven is you wrapped up and bound in beautiful skin, a precious and unexpected gift from God that pushes me to my knees daily, delights me in improbable moments, and reminds me that God is good all the time.
Happy 7th birthday, Mary Rose! I love you.
Mom
P.S. You are my favorite Mary.
