Umberto is 7

Right now the little gentleman (as he used to be known) is curled up beside me on the couch, snoring slightly. Yes, he is seven today but still young enough to want to cuddle with his mama.

But in other ways he is so a boy now, and not a little boy but a big boy. He's tall with that wonderful gangly look that boys get. He swims like a fish, and last night with his black Speedo goggles, he looked bad! He fights constantly with his sisters. He hates when they knock over his Legos, or mess up his Star Wars figures ("It's hard to have two sisters!"). He sword fights with light saber sound effects. In fact, he, like most boys, is a sound effect extraordinaire as evident when I read him his new comic book last night. When he gets mad at me or embarrassed, he rolls his eyes in the most obnoxious big boy manner. But he balances that with his sharp and witty sense of humor. He cracks jokes with eyebrows raised and a knowing look in his eyes.

And still he is my baby, my first born. I remember when I used to lie him down on the bed, and stare at him. He was so tiny and fragile then. All I wanted was to protect him from the world. He used to sleep on my chest while I sat in the green recliner at my uncle's old house in Maine. Then later, in Mexico, we would hold his hand as he stumbled through stone plazas, or we would sit him in his own chair as he ate coffee cookies at cafes. Later, I would cry when I had to leave him to go to work, even though he was two. And I remember feeling so guilty when I was pregnant with Camille as I couldn't imagine having the capacity to love two as much as I did this one (you manage it amazingly enough, and then you do it for three...). I watched him grow with pride and anxiety and a fierce joy that is impossible to put into words.

Now is the time when the letting go begins. It is painful to release him slowly to the world. A hostile world. I realize I can not protect him from everything, and it angers me. I am angry when I watch people treat him differently because he is brown. I want to smack people who comment on his gentle nature (he won't fight which is a source of pride for me) as if it somehow makes him less of a boy. I want to shield him in my arms forever but that can not be done, and I am learning to let go a bit each day. I still have these mornings when his fuzzy head lays against my leg, and the nights when he curls up in my lap. I still have time to give him hope, to teach him courage, and to reinforce his already gentle nature.

My son is seven. My only son. Mi bebe.