My beautiful firstborn son turned eight years old today. I can't believe it.
He cracks jokes like a teenager but sleeps with a bedful of softoys (all dogs, he is his mother's son).
He hates school yet loves to learn and remembers everything that he takes in.
He can be infuriatingly rude and then behave with heart-melting empathy (he called me from the office of his school the day after my surgery. He needed to check that the nurse was coming and that there was someone there to take care of me).
He is very sensitive but also the funniest person I know.
He has inherited the 'sleep gene' that plagues his father's family. Often awake beyond exhaustion late at night, and impossible to wake in the morning, even when we let his little brother jump on him (Santa, who must not like this child's parents very much, brought S. an alarm clock that sounds like a rooster crowing. While his parents curse, my boy sleeps soundly through the racket).
He is too smart for his own good.
We share a love of coffee shops, surfing the internet and fine bath products.
I love him very, very much and I could not be more proud of him.
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