This is what it looks like to be seven years old and the member of an elite team of military action heroes.
My main man, the F-Bomber himself, has turned 7-years-old on me and I cannot believe how this impossibly impressive person has grown from a chubby toddler with unspeakably cute curls into the above incarnation, this firstie, the most damnably funny and cute kid to ever grace the state. Ladies and gentleman, I introduce the King of New Franklin.
So this post is for posterity, this is for my Fletcher. Fletcher, this is a snapshot of you, my firstborn son, turning seven years old:
Today at lunch I had to spoon-feed you macaroni and cheese while you held your eyes tightly shut because you said you had seen too much yellow this day, and all the yellow was nauseating, but the mac and cheese delicious. Your favorite color is orange, which I know you'd say is an obvious thing to write, but I felt it had to be included.
Your favorite television show is Adventure Time (which I find wildly inappropriate but hilarious). We love watching the Stay Puft marshmallow man scene from Ghostbusters together over and over. You said the best day of your life was when gramma came to stay with us and the worst day ever was when she left. You love root beer and The Very Hungry Caterpillar and just yesterday you asked me to not hold your hand in public anymore.
Steak is your favorite dinner and you told me tonight, "I'd rather eat steak than anything else in the world. Except for shrimp, I'd rather eat shrimp than anything else in the world, too."
Your best friends are Clint and Anna, the brother and sister next door. The three of you spend endless hours playing "military", jumping on the trampoline and constructing Lego monuments that I unwittingly injure my bare feet on pretty much daily. You are hot tempered yet sensitive. You can remember a personal affront from as far back as infancy and carefully plot your revenge.
Fletcher, you are funny. Imaginative, glorious, messy and hilarious. I am thankful every single day that God gave me your lovely soul to look after. And even though it is embarrassing when I hug you in front of your friends, every day at school drop-off we still blow each other kisses. And eat them.
Thank you for being so amazing. If you were anything less than the perfect little dirty dog cutie pie that you are, it would suck.
Love, your momma.
Mahalo for listening.
So this post is for posterity, this is for my Fletcher. Fletcher, this is a snapshot of you, my firstborn son, turning seven years old:
Today at lunch I had to spoon-feed you macaroni and cheese while you held your eyes tightly shut because you said you had seen too much yellow this day, and all the yellow was nauseating, but the mac and cheese delicious. Your favorite color is orange, which I know you'd say is an obvious thing to write, but I felt it had to be included.
Your favorite television show is Adventure Time (which I find wildly inappropriate but hilarious). We love watching the Stay Puft marshmallow man scene from Ghostbusters together over and over. You said the best day of your life was when gramma came to stay with us and the worst day ever was when she left. You love root beer and The Very Hungry Caterpillar and just yesterday you asked me to not hold your hand in public anymore.
Steak is your favorite dinner and you told me tonight, "I'd rather eat steak than anything else in the world. Except for shrimp, I'd rather eat shrimp than anything else in the world, too."
Your best friends are Clint and Anna, the brother and sister next door. The three of you spend endless hours playing "military", jumping on the trampoline and constructing Lego monuments that I unwittingly injure my bare feet on pretty much daily. You are hot tempered yet sensitive. You can remember a personal affront from as far back as infancy and carefully plot your revenge.
Fletcher, you are funny. Imaginative, glorious, messy and hilarious. I am thankful every single day that God gave me your lovely soul to look after. And even though it is embarrassing when I hug you in front of your friends, every day at school drop-off we still blow each other kisses. And eat them.
Thank you for being so amazing. If you were anything less than the perfect little dirty dog cutie pie that you are, it would suck.
Love, your momma.
Mahalo for listening.
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