Eight?!
Oh, Jasper Callahan, on Sunday you will be eight. That doesn’t seem like a real number when applied to you. Why? Well, for starters I think we can all agree that I have real, real brain/heart block when it comes to my children, and secondly, “eight” is the age I still apply to Nora in my mind’s eye- keeping you at a firm four.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it? My darling third, even on your birthday I can’t help but lump in your aging process as something my brain has to understand (or something in comparison to your sisters, sigh).
But here’s the best part:
You’re cool with this. You’re cool with most things, in fact. (Unless it’s a loose tooth or a bloody nose or a minor medical procedure that we didn’t do a super great job at explaining in depth to you, causing a heck of a lot of unnecessary overthinking. For example, dental x-rays. Sweet goodness. You might be the only patient in the history of dentistry who, when asked a question while being worked on, attempts to ask lengthy, lengthy questions in return.)
And I know I often wax poetic about you as “my baby” and how much I treasured your littleness. (And kiddo- I do, and I did, and I shall.) But there’s something really special about you at this age.
Even though you’re a “need to see how the clock innards piece together” kinda guy, you firmly grasp magic with both hands. You laugh easily- and hysterically- and find genuine humor in puns, riddles, gross jokes (peak “eight,” right there), surprising answers, and slapstick.
You get really excited when you find “a good stick” in the yard, and treasure abandoned birds’ nests. Miniatures and wooden carvings are lined in places of honor on your shelves, and a tiny zoo of specifically named stuffies patrol your bed every day and night.
You apologize easily and often, because you know what it’s like to be hurt to your core. You’re my logical thinker, for whom math and order brings safety and comfort- but you tell the absolute best stories, epics with twists and turns and sure, occasionally guns (but not THOSE kinds of guns, you’re quick to tell me). You love so deeply, but rarely pick up on the social cues that the joke/the game/the wondrous activity has ended, and often get so sad and so mad at yourself. (Related, you’re my biggest over-thinker, over-dissector, and over-griever.)
Ballet.
How could I not mention ballet? Pal, you told me that you’d like to start dancing this year, I said absolutely. When asked what kind you wanted to try, you informed me that you were “already really good at hip hop” (obviously), and that you figured ballet would be great.
Because, as you also told me, “that’s where the money is.”
(I swear you were raised by two parents who worked in the arts for a long, long time. Neither one of us can recall ever telling you that one medium over another is where you go for the money, artistically speaking.)
But even if the money never flows from this venture, it’s already paid for itself in sheer joy. Yes, you know the positions, yes, you’ll stretch and sway and rise with the best of ’em…but when it comes to leaping? You fly. It has yet to occur to you that, at this age especially, ballet is predominantly attended by girls. Sure, you know that you’re the only boy in your class- possibly in the entire studio- but you look at it with a shrug and a “weird, maybe more guys will come next semester?”
Because leaping makes you happy, and leaping makes you feel like you’re good at controlling your body, and leaping- as you’ve told me- doesn’t care if you’re a boy or a girl or neither.
So for YOU…
…My wonderful Jasper, on this, your almost eighth birthday, I want to celebrate everything good that you share and know and think and feel. Because YOU, independently of your parents or sisters or friends or classmates, are deserving of your shiny place in the sun.
(But I’ll always, always be here for a snuggle when that sun is a little too bright or too much, to help quiet that brain and to hold that hand steady.)
Happy birthday, sweet baby Big Kid, happy birthday to you.
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