Mom, Was it Heaven?

Brynn was looking out the window on the ride home from school. The weather was gray and cloudy and raindrops still decorated the windows from the morning rainstorm.

"Mom, was is it heaven when you were seven?" she asked quietly.

"What?" I couldn't figure out what she was asking.

"Was it heaven when you were seven? I love being seven; it's heaven," she explained.

Ah, being seven. I thought for a moment. "Yes Brynn, seven was heaven for me too."

"Brynn, why is seven heaven for you?" I asked.

"Well," she started, "I was the queen of the jungle gym in Castle Rock, I have lots of Webkinz, and I got to go to Disneyland."

I'm glad that Brynn loves being seven, but truth be told, she's enjoyed every age she's been. It's almost impossible to look through albums of pictures and find one where she isn't flashing a huge, cheesy smile or striking an impromptu, ridiculous pose. She sees each morning as an opportunity to rustle up some kind of fun and entertainment.

Brynn doesn't walk: she skips, runs, hops, and cartwheels down the aisle at Target. She doesn't just stop either: she flies into a chair, slides across the floor on her knees, or flngs herself into someone's unexpecting midsection. Church must be an exercise of intense patience for her. And while these descriptions sound like a diagnosis of ADD or something, she wouldn't be labeled that at all. She does well in school, can maintain her composure, and does have the ability to pay attention, reflect, and reason.

No. Brynn doesn't have a disorder of any kind. Brynn simply has, well, joy.

Later that day, as I watch her in dance class, I notice that the drab colored, soft pink ballet leotard she's wearing gives no indication of the spunk within. It isn't until the class is stretching and she announces to the other students, "I can feel the buuuuuuuuuuuurn!" that she resembles the Brynn I know. The other girls giggle as she puts them at ease. She loves a good girlfriend (and she has many). She likes nothing better than telling secrets on the sidelines during a soccer game, making best-friend nicknames, or giving "hug-gies" goodbye (usually 2 or 3 or until she's dragged away).

It's sad for me to watch her grow. Her build-a-bears and plastic princess shoes have gathered dust in the back of her closet as she's rushed full force into girlhood. With excitement she's taped up posters of the Jonas Brothers and Hannah Montana to the walls of her room. I take them down every so often, but new ones appear, as if by magic, to take their places. Her sweet bedtime storybooks don't get read anymore. Instead, books with titles such as High School Musical, Get Your Vote On! sit on the nightstand next to her bed. I'll find her reading them as I go in there to kiss her goodnight

Oh Brynn.

My Brynn.

I hope you continue to find joy in this old life. I hope every age greets you with the excitement and thrills you so love. May your years be filled with snowglobes, and tomatoes, and stickers, and chocolate creamies, and the sweet smell of your pillow as you bury your face in it. I hope you find the joy you so optimistically expect and the party you're searching for just around the next corner.