Dearest Jasper, you are 7.
You are 7.
You are the tail-end of many, many things.
Birth order.
Opinion-asking.
Seat preference.
This is unfair to you, because- the last time I checked- you had very little say in how and when and why you were born, and also how we ended up choosing the Honda Odyssey’s particular layout of seats.
It is also perfectly fair, because you are the happiest little guy with whatever you get to eat and whomever you get to sit near.
I think you were given to us (me) for this reason, because we (I) needed our smallest person to really be happy with the kind of stuff we like to do and the kind of way we like to live.
For example.
We moved you across the country right after a kindergarten year fraught with teacher strikes and two bouts of flu and a celiac diagnosis and a good ol’ global pandemic to cap it off. (We joked that you’d eventually think that first grade should, historically, only consist of roughly ten in-person days. Hahahahahahaha what the heck was wrong with us.)
I was worried about how you’d be, away from newly formed best friendships and neighborhood attachments and your speech and occupational therapists and street-level trains and my closest friends who loved you like second mamas.
And you were sad. You were briefly very sad. (And quiet.) I knew you worried, I knew you tucked it away, and I knew that when you patted my shoulder and asked if I wasn’t really sure about the move…you were asking for yourself, too. (And buddy, I feel you. There were times that I really, really wasn’t sure.)
But when we got here, when we pulled down our new lane, you couldn’t believe we had given you “a playground.” Or that your new bedroom was next to Mom and Dad’s. (“Can you believe it?) You didn’t have to wear shoes outside. You piled things into a backpack to go on adventures. (IN THE WOODS.) You got a library card with your name. A swimming pool? A school with gluten-free lunches? A DOG?!
You find joy in this weirdness.
When you marvel about life to your sisters, it fills me with such, such, such joy.
Because life isn’t perfect right now.
Your mask fogs your glasses.
Your speech impediment is sometimes more pronounced on Zoom calls.
You get really worried that “people are going to get sick and die” and we’ve spent way, way more time reassuring you about death and life and health and relative levels of safety than I would’ve liked for you at this age.
And even though we’ve been here for over five months- and even though you enjoyed in-person school for a blip- you don’t really have a best friend to call your own yet. (And you couldn’t really have a best friend playdate with them even if you did.)
But you’re still a happy little guy.
(…Who loves to hold hands and take pretend-naps with his mama, I mean where did you come from, child.)
Yesterday I found you sprawled on the couch, staring up at the ceiling.
“What’re you doing, buddy?”
“Just thinking about my birthday. I can’t believe it’s tomorrow,” you said.
“I know, it’ll be so much fun!”
You looked up at me. “But I’m so excited that I don’t know if I’m actually a little sad, too.” (Lord protect me from this household of empaths.)
I told you that it was great to be excited and okay to be sad, and that sometimes the anticipation of something you’ve really, really been looking forward to can actually make you feel all wonky.
(Like this new home.)
(Like this new town.)
(Like this new school year.)
(Like this new age, one that feels decidedly momentous, one that’s gifted you the sharp-edged cheekbones of a Big Kid.)
You nodded, got a snack, and jumped on the trampoline until the bouncing thoughts in your brain and body felt a little more settled and sortable.
And last night before bed, as I sprawled next to you and sang the same five songs I had murmured over (and over and over) your non-sleepy bassinet roughly seven years ago, you joyfully whispered “I just can’t believe it.”
Me neither, pal.
Jasper Callahan, you are 7.
I’ll probably never stop being surprised.
And I’ll definitely never stop being grateful.
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