On May 2nd, you turned seven years old. To celebrate, you lost BOTH of your front teeth. The tooth fairy, who is obviously a forgetful drunk, failed to bring you any money for a couple of days. You were so bummed that I almost broke the unspoken vow of parenthood ("Let them believe in magic.") and confessed that the forgetful drunkard is really me. Instead you got $3 for that tooth and I felt like a dork for a few minutes. (I FORGOT. I'M SORRY. (Also, I don't drink. I'm just an airhead.))
Anyway, it's been seven years since the doctor dragged you into the world arse first, and in that time you've become no less stubborn. Baby Hardhead has become Big Boy Hardhead, seemingly overnight. When you dig in your heels, you REALLY dig in. It's a good thing that you're relatively easy going.
You're still oddly graceful when moving, but God help you if you come to a standstill. If a thing can be accidentally dropped, spilled, stained, crushed, torn or broken, you'll take care of it post haste. Then your bottom lip will thrust forward like a rock plateau jutting out over a canyon, and you'll burst into horrified, heartbroken keening. Your dying sea cow routine, while not any cuter, has certainly gotten more polished in the last year.
You're in first grade now, and as far as I can tell, you think of homework as the Third Greatest Injustice In The World (the first two Great Injustices being: Jack, and his refusal to stop calling you "Finnegan" when you have sworn to answer only to "Finn," and the fact that you aren't old enough to use the computer lab at the library). You and I have spent many an evening together during which you cry and I roll my eyes because of homework. You understand it, but as far as I can tell, you're still secretly hoping I will lose my mind and do it for you. Because it's booooring and it's haaard and you wanted to go to the paaaark! I'd just like to say that I've been to school and I will do your homework and projects for you exactly never. As your little brother likes to point out, I'm "mean."
You're still fighting crime and rooting for the underdog as Justice Beaver (Remember: Justice Beaver wants equal treatment for ALL the beavers), which as I pointed out last year is your super hero identity. You are always measuring, counting, weighing, searching and trying to quantify what and how many and when. Skylar went to the zoo while you were at school? It's not fair! Isaac has a Nintendo DSi? It's not fair! Jack was born first? It's NOT FAIR! Like your Aunt Jacqui, you will someday leave this world kicking and screaming, and someone will have to inscribe "ITS NOT FAIR" on your tombstone.
This obsession with equality plays out in interesting ways. You are, depending on the situation, either: the nicest, kindest, most generous, adorable person who has ever walked the earth or--the jerkiest, most jealous, whiny, mean-spirited baby brat under the sun.
Your quest for fairness means treating everyone as you want to be treated, but then railing like a hysterical caged animal when things don't go your way.
You make breakfast for Skylar every morning, because Jack won't do it and you hate it when Skylar gets upset. You share everything you have, even when there isn't enough to go around.
On the other hand, you were ungrateful
enough at your sixth birthday party that I threatened to donate all your gifts to charity if the green-eyed monster showed so much as an eyelash this year (he did not).
On the other, other hand, you had your tonsils removed this morning, and despite being frightened and in pain, you still found it in your heart to share the contents of your hospital gift bag with your healthy, pain-free brothers this afternoon because "they didn't get anything."
Speaking of the tonsil surgery, let's just say I'm glad THAT'S over. You broke my heart, small boy in a big hospital bed, especially when you got really scared and asked me to take you home. That was my cue to snatch you up outta that bed and take you out to IHOP for pancakes while wearing disguises like escaped convicts (mustache for you, blonde wig for me). But instead, I took a deep breath and held it so I wouldn't cry in front of you, and as soon as they wheeled you out I went to the bathroom to cry alone.
Poor, sweet Finn. I'm sorry. I know it hurt and we'd never have agreed to it if we didn't think it was for the best. I told you you could have any Lego set you wanted if you'd just calm down. Don't cry, little one! Please, my heart can't take it! I swear to you, I'd have thrown myself down for surgery if it would have helped. Thank goodness it's behind us.
Happy 7th birthday, Finn. May seven be better than either one of us can imagine.
Love,
Mom
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