Growing up

At seven, Mr7 is a boy. No longer can I pretend he is little. Despite the fact that I can look into his face and still see the chubby-cheeked toddler who loved The Wiggles. Now he is all arms, legs and oversized front teeth; Harry Potter, Star Wars, bakugans and Ninjas.

Which is not to say that he does not continue to surprise and enchant me.

Today was not a good day in the Fibro. It was an end-of-school-holidays, irritable, itchy, scratchy kind of day. An icky, sticky, humid kind of day. The kind of day that had us all climbing the walls and shouting at each other.

In an effort to calm things down, we went for a walk. He didn’t want to come. He stood on the front verandah, humphing, right up until the point where Mr4 and I turned out of the driveway and went out of sight behind next door’s peach tree.

“Waaaaiiiittt!” came the shriek from behind me.

We waited at the corner. He ambled over, then refused to go further, standing on the corner, humphing, watching us walk away, right up until the point where we were about to cross the next street.

“Waaaaaiiiitttt!” came the shriek from behind me.

We waited at the corner. He ambled over… and so on.

Once we actually gathered some momentum, the walk went well and we were all in a much better frame of mind on the way home. We passed a crepe myrtle tree.

“How many kinds of blossoms are there, Mum?” he asked, always one for a difficult question.

Lots.

A gentle breeze blew, lifting the clothes that were stuck to us (along with our spirits), cooling the sweat on our skin, sending crepe myrtle blossoms billowing to the earth.

“Look Mum,” said Mr7, dancing with joy as white petals landed on his arms. “A flower shower.”

And that’s why I will never really put him out with the recycling, despite my darkest, direst threats.