For Harry on your 8th Birthday…

Harry,

As I write this letter to you from my sun lounger in Crete on the eve of your 8th birthday, I have to keep swallowing that rising lump in my throat that you, the baby of our family, are eight. I’ve made no secret of the fact you were very much a surprise and back then, with a 3 month old Megan and a one year old Eva, I was absolutely terrified how we would ever manage. Little did I know you would be the best surprise of our entire lives and, in all the best ways, you were the perfect way to finish off our family. Lucky number five.

Harry, where do I even start on the last year? It’s been a rollercoaster ride that’s for sure but through every hospital visit, every test, every single appointment without fail, you’ve taken it all within your stride. All you’ve ever cared about is what flavour crisps you’ll get from the hospital kiosk afterwards, or how excited you are to miss an hour or two of school. You’ve never questioned any of it, never complained, never wondered why life has become so complicated in lots of ways, and I honestly think that because, for you, it simply isn’t. With you there are no bad days, no complaints, no negative thoughts; there has never been a single morning in the last eight years when you haven’t woke with the biggest smile on your face. With you there is only ever a bright side, a silver lining, a rainbow in a sky of storms, and honestly, I say this every single day, if we could all be more like you the world would be a far better place.

You are the most loving, kind and intuitive little boy, the first to rush to cuddle me when I come down the stairs each morning, to hold my hand no matter where we go, to blow me kisses or give me a thumbs up every single time our eyes meet across the room. Although I know each of your siblings love me with every piece of their hearts, with you that love is fierce, it’s unconditional, it’s shown every second of every day with showers of kisses and non stop cuddles. You are undoubtedly your mamas boy and, I’m pretty sure, you always will be.

The last year has been filled with adventures and although we often joke that you are completely oblivious to everything around you, actually that isn’t really true. Every so often you’ll come out with a memory, completely out of nowhere, and ask me if I remember that sandcastle contest we once had, or those chips we ate on the pier, and I realise that although you may not take in every single detail of every place you’ve ever been, you most definitely keep the very best memories with you.

And I guess that’s what I try and do with every passing year Harry, to accept that although I won’t remember every single detail of the year you were seven, I can take the very best moments and carry them with me. Seven was the year you’d come bursting into the living room ten times a day to tell me about your latest high score in Mario, the year I’d hear your shrieks of laughter from the playroom when you took Daddy down in Stickman. Seven was the year you’d beg Lewis to let you play on his Xbox and how I’d find the two of you sitting in the dark, propped up against his pillows, completely engrossed in a game.

Seven was the year we toasted marshmallows round the campfire in Dorset and you’d stuff three in your mouth in one go and say, “But they’re just so good!”, the year you learned to paddle board in Pembrokeshire and how we were convinced you’d fall in but actually you turned out to be the most capable of us all. Seven was the year you were so excited to try Segways and despite the instructors lengthy briefing, you stepped right on and went full pelt around the tent before somersaulting off with a look of confusion on your face. The year you first tried archery and we all feared for our lives at your lack of spacial awareness wielding your bow and you simply smiled and went straight for the bullseye, first go.

Seven was the year we watched the sunset in Barmouth, in Devon, in Cornwall, the year your little face would glow under the golden light of the sun and you’d nuzzle your head into my shoulder and let out the happiest little sighs. The year we glamped in Wales and how I’d wake up every morning to you looking up at me from your little bed on the floor, whispering “I’ve been awake for ages!!”.

Seven was the year we went to Croatia and you swam out to sea with those big flipper feet and leapt onto the inflatable assault course like you couldn’t believe your luck. The year Lewis catapulted you 10 feet into the sea, watched you somersault into the sea and we waited with baited breath for you to float back to the surface with the biggest smile on your face shouting “Do it higher next time!!”. Seven was the year you drove your very first boat, right up there at the front with the Captain’s hat on, bursting with pride that finally, you had beat your sisters and done something first!

Seven was the year we would face the agonising decision of which gelato to choose on every single trip out or holiday even though we all knew you’d choose vanilla every time without fail. The year you were still completely incapable of eating an ice cream without dripping it down your t shirt and how no matter how clean you were to start the day, you’d be the sweatiest, grubbiest little boy by the end of it.

Seven was the year we went to Helsinki and dreaded every menu because you’re just so damned fussy and yet you were never happier than with a plate of bread and a big bowl of french fries. The year we were to the Finnish sauna and you spent the majority of the time tipping buckets of iced water over your head and laughing hysterically as your lips went blue and I’d have to put you in the hot shower. Seven was the year you’d crawl into my bed on every single trip away and say, “Mama, I’m the luckiest little boy in all the world.”

Seven was the year we went to France and you spent the entire ferry journey wrestling with random children you’d met in the play area and emerge every half an hour dripping in sweat, your cheeks bright red, your tongue hanging out and panting like a little dog. The year we spent three hours visiting the History of Joan of Arc museum where you sat and listened to your head set, watched every video, read every information card and yet later, when I mentioned something from the museum that day you’d asked me, “Who’s Joan??”. Seven was the year we discovered “French Harry” who vowed to try one new food a day until that something was an olive and you took one bite and threw up right there on the spot.

Seven was the year you went away on your very first residential with school and I have never missed you quite as much as I did in that moment. And how when I picked you up the next day you were bursting with stories of your trip and I loved hearing every single one because actually, it was the very first time you’ve remembered a single thing from a school day.

Seven was the year you were kind and courageous, silly and adventurous; the year you loved each of your siblings in so many different ways but we all knew, you adored your Meggy. Seven was the year I’d come up the stairs and find you snuggled up in her bed, your arms wrapped around each other surrounded by a billion teddies; the year you’d do anything she asked of you, and carry out each of her demands, and how you would melt in the warmth of each of her kisses.

Seven was the year I learned that despite each of your hardships and our search for support, I wouldn’t change a single thing about you Harry, not in a million years. I just want you to be happy and healthy, to live a life filled with Harry-isms and infectious laughter, to continue to wake up every single morning with the biggest smile on your face and to know that we love and embrace each of your differences, and we always will.

And so today, rather than be sad that my littlest dove is eight years old, I’m going to be so incredibly grateful for eight whole years of loving you and look forward to a lifetime more.

Happy 8th birthday Harrison Joseph.

May your day be filled with sunshine and ice cream. Vanilla, always.

We love you all the stars in the sky

Love Mummy

xxx