You are seven today and you are SO BIG. With your short hair and lost teeth and grown-up words. The other day you said to your dad, “Let me be clear: I don’t like quesadillas.” And we laughed when you weren’t looking. But we rewarded your clarity with one of the three remaining dinners you currently eat.
I know it's hard to be little in this family of big personalities. You’ve been along for the ride in the wayback for a while now, where we can barely hear you over our own talking. But I do hear you. You are an incisive observer. You love puns. You hate movies that are scary, or worse, where anyone is too vulnerable or even slightly embarrassed. You are kind. You can entertain yourself at a restaurant with salt and pepper shakers and a fork. You have the most expansive imagination of any person I know.
And you’re magical right now. You’re seven.