turning seven.

Seven. A number, that when you're not looking, slowly creeps to eight and nine and then eventually ten. There are moments when I hold on to your youth. The days that were filled with baby talk and babble. Hand prints on paper and footprints marked in paint. Papers and memories I tuck in a drawer. They are hidden away and safe. Safe for me to find when I think of my little baby turning seven. My big boy who reads, who is passionate about words and building. Who uses his hands to construct and deconstruct and who can tell me stories until the sun comes up. My seven year old, who still sneaks into my bed at night. Who reaches for my hand and whispers I love in my ear.

Jonas, you are my first, my sensitive and passionate child. You lead with your heart, your gentle touch and your loving soul. I hope our days of cuddles and midnight whispers never end. Our nights of made up stories and far away lands, tucked under covers with flashlights and gazing at stars dancing across bedroom ceilings.

Jonas, I love you to the moon and back.
A million times.