seven

My son brings home a cookie he made at school that looks like it fell off a truck.  It’s supposed to be for Christmas, I think, because the white frosting and red sprinkles have glommed together in a way that should have a police line cordoning off the area.

One morning before school, my son entertains himself with a stray puff of goose down.  He realizes the goose down can ride the wind of one of our electric heat throwers, and so he carefully ministers to its flight, running around it and blowing on it to keep it afloat on the hot air current.  He has incredible insights and questions, the kind of halting questions you wouldn’t even think to ask.  “When was the first math problem?”  That’s a good question – the dawn of math.  He’s always wondering what the first of something was, when it began, concerned with origins.  Math is difficult; his old man failed Calculus twice and dropped out in the third round, so it’s not hugely surprising the kid is already getting frustrated over subtraction.

His reading and writing skills are stellar.  His interests vary from day to day, but he’s enthusiastic about everything.  About buying everything, for one thing – he shops in catalogs on the living room floor, lying on his stomach, his feet sticking up.  He wants to play the drums, he wants to be an X-ray doctor, he wants to throw clay pots.  Seven is a truly special age.  Contained in seven is the innocence and enthusiasm of early childhood.  He is just a little boy, bright and full of energy, completely forgiving and almost always in the moment, yet he is becoming a young person, and worries about things he didn’t before.  He can turn the tables on his parents, he can sense what he does not have, and his traits are forming more distinctly.  It’s the dawn of reason, so they say, and it will likely take many years from now before he learns to look beyond reason and acquire faith, though in some ways, he already has it.

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