A Problem With Your Age

I don't know about you but I have a real problem with your age. Somehow, when I forgot to look, 7 years sped by. I tell you all the time that I'm going to squnch you up and put you back in my stomach. You think I'm kidding, but guess what? I'm not. If I could do it, I would in a skinny minute.

I crept into your room the last night of your 6th year.

Sweet 6 year old Big.
  

Sweet 6 year old hands.

Sweet 6 year old face.

Daddy and I planned something big for Big this year. We set up little signs from his room to our porch to help him find his way to his birthday present before he had to go to school.

We let him decide what we all would have for dinner. So we had fried chicken, mac and cheese and cake. Lots of cake.

Oh and note to self: Big doesn't like cake anymore.

I heard a nasty rumor that Big thinks he's too big for a "real" party. That's why, he decided to have a sleepover this year. Two of his favorite people in the entire world came over for the night. I closed my eyes, I opened the bags of candy and the cans of Sprite and let them at it.

And when they thought they'd had enough. We let them smash a pinata. And then there was a silly string fight and there was a lot of swimming in the pool and a lot of "bam bam" when they plaid army.

And then.

We let them eat cake.

Ahhhh, more cake.

Towards the end of the night all 3 of them looked like they were in Vegas. All wide-eyed and spinning with delirious ridiculousness.

They were up early. Real, real early. But just like Vegas, who needs sleep anyways? You made it Big. You're finally 7 and I've got a real problem with your age.