You are seven.
You love being like your daddy. Your daddy loves that you like being like him. You love Arsenal, playing soccer, wrestling, any book he wants to read to you.
I'm pretty sure you aspire to grow a beard as soon as possible.
Your reading amazes me. Every time you read out loud I am blown away at how much you have grown.
You love school. You love your teacher Mrs. Trainum and Mrs. Musser.
You have flourished these past months. You smile all the time. I ask you often where this smile has come from. It came out of nowhere, the joy is plastered on your face.
Being seven to you mean, more chores, more responsibilities.
You adore, did I say adore, your baby brother so much. You speak the world of Porter. You are so proud that you were able to feed him a bottle. He watches you like a hawk. I have a feeling he always will.
You love being the oldest child. Mostly because that means you get to be the boss a lot whether mom or dad likes it.
You want to be in the Air Force. Your new favorite game is to play army. Marching around the house with nerf guns, scouting any threats.
Your smile...melts a room.
When it is warm out, your outfit of choice is athletic shorts and a polo preferably with the collar popped.
You love cowboys. You wear your cowboy boots almost daily. You love walking around the house with your hat on and gun holstered around your belt.
You have the most profound thoughts about God. You are a thinker. You are an observer.
You are loved.