Seven

Seven.

You wake up before me now,

padding down the hall

like the house belongs to you—

and it does.

“Mom, are you awake?”

you whisper,

already knowing the answer,

already climbing in beside me anyway.

Seven years ago

you were a breath I held,

a name I practiced in my mouth,

a whole future I couldn’t yet imagine.

Now you are loud mornings

and grass-stained knees,

half-told stories at the dinner table,

and a laugh that fills every room

like it was built for you.

I still see the baby in flashes—

in the way you curl into me

without thinking,

in the way your hand finds mine

when you’re tired,

in the soft place behind your ear

that hasn’t changed at all.

And it gets me—

every time.

How did we get here

from there?

From tiny fingers wrapped around mine

to you running ahead—

then stopping, turning back,

making sure I’m still coming.

I always will be.

Seven.

And I swear

it feels like both a second

and a lifetime

since I first held you.

If I could press pause

I might—

but then you’d miss

who you’re becoming.

So I just stand here

in the middle of it all—

this loud, beautiful, fleeting life—

and let it wash over me.

Clapping at your every “watch this,”

memorizing the sound of your voice,

feeling my heart stretch again

in a way that doesn’t hurt—

just overflows.

Seven.

And somehow

I’m still in awe

that I get to be

your mom.

Happy 7th my baby!

🫶🏽 Love Mama & Daddy