The Magic of Seven

There are times when there are no words.

Pirate Boy and I have been on a news blackout since last Friday. It started, quite accidentally enough, with him coming home sick and glassy-eyed on Thursday. By Friday, the two of us had made a fort of my king-sized bed while his fever knocked him flat--but he wanted mommy near--and I worked from a laptop. It was there I learned of the tragic events and decided I had no words. Every time I ventured out of my Pirate Fort, what I saw upset me too much. Oh, the news was horrific enough to make me sob. But it was the rush to say, it was the media's "fault." Or This is what happens when you take prayer out of schools. Like a moment of prayer each day would prevent this. I don't pray. But I teach compassion to my children. There were other pundits and other comments in social media that defied common sense. The idea that it's any ONE cause is simplistic. Anyway, whatever it was I saw in social media, much of it upset me even further. So we stayed in our Pirate Fort and read Narnia . . . we watched Arthur Christmas (Pirate Boy: "Four gold doubloons!" Mom: "Fabulous for kids and adults alike!"), we worked on the novel we are writing together. We cuddled under a furry blanket. A PURPLE furry blanket I won in a Christmas gift exchange at my book club. For a kid with sensory issues, (fake!) fur is a very good thing. We told bad jokes. We played Where's Waldo. He ran fevers of 103. I worried. He slept. He kicked me in his very fitful, moaning sleep. It's now three nights and I've managed a grand total of seven and a half hours sleep spread over four days. I am starting to sound loopy when I speak. I look like something our cat dragged in. Last night his dad was supposed to take over so I could rest. Didn't happen. Now I look like something our cat dragged in and REJECTED.

But there are no words. Nor should there be, really. None of us have words for what is unimaginable. For those parents. As someone who processes the world through my writing, there are simply no words. I can't lift up prayers. Words fail me. I shed a lot of tears. And sometime in the night I thought of what I do have as my words. As the names were released . . . I saw 6, 7, 6, 7, 7, 6 . . . these age numbers that were so tragic. And my sleeping Pirate Boy? He's seven. It's a magical number. Or should be. And so for my own solace, I decided to write about how beautiful seven is. He is not every child--far from it. He's Pirate Boy, after all. He's my child. How I feel about him is uniquely our love story, just as every parent has his or her love story with his or her child--or should. It should have a natural progression of things. It should be loving. But I know that's not always the case. And I know the natural order is too-commonly not so. But this is my seven.

At seven, his Santa is real.

"Some of my friends don't believe."

"That's absolutely insane."

"I know. They don't believe in dragons either."

"Don't they see dragon plumes across the sky? Their smoke?"

"They think that's from airplanes."

"How sadly mistaken they are. Well . . . I'm really old, and I still believe in Santa. I believe that deep down there is a child in every person. And sometimes that gets lost. But for the lucky ones, the ones who believe, Santa lives on forever."

"He's like thousands of years old, right?"

I nod wisely.

"I believe. I really want that wolf puppy. But I'll be happy with a cotton candy machine."

I believe too. The wolf puppy? Not happening. But shhhhh . . . the cotton candy machine? Wrapped! By elves!

At seven, there are no straight lines. Anywhere. Walk outside with Pirate Boy and you will meander. You will find worms and ladybugs. You will find pennies on the ground--magic wishing pennies discarded by busy people who didn't know their real worth. You will find perfect autumn leaves and rocks that have flecks of REAL gold on them. You will see strange patterns in the muddy ground left by aliens. You will see bear tracks on the front lawn. You will see magnificent dragon plumes across the sky and know lurking nearby must be wizards and knights. You'll know that while wishing on the white seeds of blown dandelions may ruin a neighbor's yard, those wishes will most certainly come true.

Even in the supermarket, straight lines do not exist. With Pirate Boy, there is a meander toward the Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup and Krispy Kreme donuts, even when those items aren't on your list.

At seven, the mysteries of the Universe know no bounds. How do we get to Narnia? If everyone in the world leaves Santa cookies won't his stomach eventually explode into a huge mess? What about the reindeer? All those carrots! And do they poop on your roof? What causes a shooting star? Is there really life on other planets? If I plant this apple seed, how fast will I have an apple orchard? Like . . . one year or two? I speak cat but not dog--can cats and dogs talk to each other? Why do teenagers sleep so much--what's wrong with them? If I flush ice cubes down the toilet, will that make it snow? Why do people get sick? Why are some people just mean? Is "Youstinkistan" a real place? What about Middle Earth?

At seven, Pirate Boy tries to pin me down. Do I believe in angels? Ghosts? God? Leprechauns? Fairies? Dragons? Unicorns? Big Foot?

Seven is innocent mixed with naughtiness. It is armpit farts and passing gas on command. It is mooning his sister, and saying "shut up," even when he's been told a thousand times not to. Only . . . this week, one of his little friends said it to HIM and he realized how "not nice" that is. So now he says he won't say it ever again--except to his nemesis--his fifteen-year-old sister. It is swearing to me that he has NO IDEA who wrote on the walls. No IDEA who appeared to use the front of his shirt as a napkin. No IDEA who used an entire bottle of shampoo in the shower to make bubbles. None whatsoever!

Seven is possibility. It is when you think you really might be President of the United States and declare every Sunday as "free Dunkin' Donuts Glazed Munchkin day!" You might fly to the moon. You might be Pope, even though you aren't Catholic. You might break the world record for fastest talker. Or maybe the one for collecting the most pennies. You might become a world-famous rockstar and buy your mom a house, even though your guitar is currently missing one string--and you don't know which one it is.

Seven is knowing--because Mommy has told you--that no, you can't go wandering off alone by yourself in a store because the world isn't always a safe place. But it's just a concept. And Mommy is glad it's just a concept. Beyond grateful even. Seven is now, being told that when you go back to school Monday, you may hear that at another school something bad happened. But that you are safe. In our Pirate Fort. And can't we just stay here a little bit longer? Oh that every child had a Pirate Fort.