My big kid turned seven today.
It's been a rough week. I have been working at the returning office for the provincial election, which was the 22nd, so life has been hectic. My husband is moose hunting. The kids and I are sick with nasty colds. I am shuffling the children to babysitters, doing laundry at 10pm, staying up all night with a sad toddler, planning a party for my son alone. I worked 14 hours on Monday. I sat in a doctor's office with my daughter yesterday afternoon with only 1.5 hours of broken sleep under my belt in the previous 30 hours.
Through all of this, my son did not complain once that maybe his birthday was not as big as in past years. He didn't care. What he cared about was having a campfire (we did), getting a remote control Jeep Wrangler (he did), and having supper tonight at his Nana's house with his great-grandmother and a couple of other close family members (we did). So, amidst all of this craziness, in between dinner and cake, I slipped outside with my two children and let them play and run. I forgot about the groceries in the trunk, the laundry that needed folding when I got home, the pounding in my stuffed-up head, the longing for my husband to come home soon, and I watched them swing, and hop, and pick flowers, and laugh.
You have taught me a lot in the past seven years, Charlie, and you still do, every day. Happy seventh.