Noah turned seven today. Seven seems so big and it is. It is forts, nerf gun battles, Star Wars Legos, sleep-overs, and lots of jokes about bodily functions. All sorts of big boy stuff which was making me feel kind of nostalgic last night. And then Noah showed me that seven means other stuff, too. Sitting at the dinner table last night, Noah started talking about how he couldn't wait to wake up in the morning to find his presents, birthday cards, and his number seven shirt. It caught me off guard. I hadn't made a shirt for him because I assumed he would think it too babyish. I was exhausted from staying up late and had to do lots of digging to find the fabric and fusible webbing, but it also made me smile. My sweet little monkey boy loves traditions as much as I do. And as I tucked him into bed, he reached for my hair, rubbed it against his cheek and sighed with contentment. It turns out seven is a mama-made t-shirt, dirty fingernails, and a Star Wars clone guy all mixed together. And I love that mixture. Happy Birthday, Noah!