Eight is great

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Our dear Henry is crossing the threshold from little boy to bigger boy. He’ll be closer to 10 than five. He turns eight on Saturday.

When Henry turned six, I breathed a sigh of relief. I thought, “oh yea, I lived through a five-year-old Henry.” Thinking that with the age would come, I don’t know, a little more calm, a little less danger. Well, there’s no more calm. He’s as high energy as ever. Higher actually. And it’s wonderful. How one human can be so full of joy and life is amazing. I’ve always said that he’s just here for the party. But he’s really here for so much more.

It’s been a joy watching him grow as he’s learned to read and write. We’re all often amazed at his love of science and his ability to build some working contraption out of anything he can get his hands on. What an honor it has been to prepare him for his first reconciliation and first communion and to teach him to pray.

Since Richard and I had at one time thought Henry was going to be our last baby, I love to see how God’s plan for our family has unfolded. It’s beautiful to see how Henry embraces his role as big brother to Lillian and Cliff and how much he enjoys his big sisters and how he shows them his love and affection.  (Leaving wrapped coins on their beds is always a hoot.) He’s right where he should be — smack in the middle — because it always seems there’s enough of Henry to go around.

In honor of his birthday, I am posting a story I wrote when he was four. Thank you God for Henry.

Our son, being himself.

Our son, being himself.

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