What's better than a poke in the eye?

I was awakened in the pre-dawn hours today by a repeated poking in my eye. My EYE.

When I clambered out from unconsciousness, there was my son T blinking at me in the darkness. "Oh, good, mom. You're awake," he said.

"Yup." It was all I could muster. I had been repeatedly poked in the eye, after all.

"I'm having a scary dream and the new fridge is making loud noises and Eragon is staring at me and my bed is too hot and... can I sleep by you?" He was already halfway into the bed before he finished his explanation.

As for me, I was so happy I couldn't drift back to sleep.

See, I've been kind of dreading September 10. It's T's birthday today and he's 7. SEVEN! He's already marching off to first grade with a purpose that is borderline militaristic. He takes piano lessons. Pours his own milk. Buckles his seat belt without ever being asked. Takes his shoes off when entering a friend's house. Knows his address and phone number. Can program the Tivo and various other gadgets that completely mystify me.

Some days, I feel like if I blink he'll be off for good, my baby driving into the world. It will happen, I know, and each birthday draws us nearer to that inevitable fork in the road. But this morning, there were no forks. There was just a little spoon in my bed, trembly and worried about the noisy fridge and the staring lizard.

And I still had the power to make everything all better.

Happy, happy birthday to both of us.