My baby boy turns 7 next week. Not so much a baby anymore, at least for these past 6 years, especially now that there is an actual baby boy in the mix again. But still, I look at him and all I remember is this big, roly-poly, hunk of a man-child that I somehow was able to give birth to and still had enough energy to feed him, take care of him and watch him grow.
He's at the age now where, if I call him "baby", it is now an insult and he gets mad at me. But he still loves to cuddle, loves to kiss, loves to hold my hand, loves to tell me he loves me, and loves to be a part of this little family. He is all kindness and light and energy and creativity. He draws, writes stories, imagines, dances... he's just about everything that is good in the world.
Of course, he's not perfect. He is my child, after all. He is a bit quick to stomp his feet when he doesn't get his way, or to growl at me when he's displeased, or to hit back without even thinking. But those are all just fleeting moments, short-lived evidence of a fallen nature, quick to be replaced by angelic brown eyes and a kiss on the cheek.
When I think of all that he and I went through together, from the tumultuous labour and delivery, to the long days and nights of all eat and no sleep, to the helpless months of post-partum depression, to the moves from one house to another (and another and another), to the transplantation of our family to another life in another country which seemed awfully scary at the time... we're survivors, him and I. We've done it all together.