Seven Things I Love About My Seven-Year-Old

The Anarchist turns seven today. Seven years ago, at about this time, I was happily shoveling large forkfuls of spaghetti from my hospital tray to my mouth, convinced that I was surely not in labor. Seven years ago today, about two and a half hours from now, I vomited said spaghetti all over the poor OB/GYN intern whose sole purpose during my emergency C-section seemed to be to hold the barf pan. And seven years ago, about three hours from now, the impossible, piercing screams of a supposed-to-be-lungless 2lb Anarchist filled the labor and delivery wing of Saint Joseph Mercy Hospital. Three months early, and full of feisty life nonetheless.

She is feisty, she is full of impossible, ridiculously glorious life, and she is one of the most difficult and amazing miracles I could ever dream of. Here are just seven of the billions of things I love about the Anarchist:

The Anarchist's lungs working really, really well.

1) The Anarchist's lungs work. They work really, really well.  This is notable because the Anarchist's lungs were not supposed to work. "Maybe two weeks to live," "probably on life support most of her life," "brain damage," "chronic pulmonary disease," and all that nonsense. Whatever. The Anarchist came out shrieking for her life, and she's been shrieking ever since. Frequently. In public. But we're working on that. I told myself I wanted my children to fearlessly use their voices. I meant that in a more literary/metaphorical sense. But beggars can't be choosers. I got my wish. The Anarchist is loud. Really, really loud. And unless we're at church/in the library/driving through a dangerous intersection/at the park/dining at a fancy restaurant, I'm really, really okay with that.

2) The Anarchist loves animals.  Just ask The Fat Assassin, who has been a victim of the Anarchist's impassioned tackle-hugs on numerous occasions. This is the child who runs at snarling, unrestrained guard dogs yelling, "HI CUTE PUPPY!!!! I LOVE YOU!!!! COME HERE!!!! I WANT TO HUG YOU AND KISS YOU!!!!" And so far she hasn't been mauled or anything. Even The Fat Assassin, who is notorious for regularly sinking her fangs into residents of the Morton household, has only bitten the Anarchist a handful of times. We attribute this to some secret understanding between Anarchist and Assassin (we're only a little bit scared of the possible implications of such an understanding). Maybe her affinity for all things furry has to do with the fact that the Anarchist herself is a little bit feral. That's okay. At least she's adorable while she's growling.

3) The Anarchist is really into self-expression. Even after she figured out that it was funny, and not glamorous, to wear knee socks over her leggings, the Anarchist insisted on doing it anyway, because dorky looking legwear is an expression of who she is inside, apparently. So are ridiculous hats, masks made of notebook paper, mismatched shoes, hand-drawn Sharpie marker tattoos on her neck and face, and her delightful "poetry" and "novels."

Also underwear. She
likes to make jokes about
underwear.

4) The Anarchist knows what "scatalogical" means and can use it in a sentence. This sentence generally describes herself and her "humor." While most first graders are big into potty humor, the Anarchist is the queen of all things disgusting-yet-maybe-mildly-amusing-if-you're-seven. She doesn't limit herself to just jokes ("Knock, knock! Who's there? Poop! Poop who? Poop and pee all over your VOMIT!!! Hahaha!"), but has broadened her horizons to poems and novels as well. She is currently looking to publish her first series of novellas, entitled "Jorja and Cally," about a young boy and girl and their adventures in gross stuff. These works of fine literature make liberal use of the "butt" motif, presumably as a metaphor for endings and passages...presumably. Because, after all, the kid is brilliant. I mean, she does know what "scatalogical" means.

5) The Anarchist loves her some coffee. Okay, she doesn't really drink coffee. She tried it once and hated it. But she's been my coffee buddy since her toddler years. She loves 120-degree hot chocolate, overpriced organic chocolate milk boxes, dry oversized cookies, bad mixes of world music and bland acoustic pop, and everything else associated with coffee shops. Which is good. Because I'm a barista, and I can totally hook her up with a discount.

With her beloved chocolate milk.

6) The Anarchist is not interested in your opinions of the way the world should work. Who says she can't marry an overpriced historical doll, her cat, or her best girlfriend? The government? The church? Your grandma? Pssht...the Anarchist doesn't recognize your cultural authority, entities of the world. She's a grown seven-year-old, and she'll do what she wants, thankyouverymuch. No race car driver costumes in the girl section of the Halloween shop? That's cool. The Anarchist just slid right over to the boy section and purchased herself a very nice one, topping it all off with a fluffy tutu, just to show you she won't be penned in by your gender roles. That's my baby. The Race Car Ballerina, wife of not one, but two American Girl dolls...and a cat. Anarchy!

The famous "race car ballerina" costume in action.

7) The Anarchist is very much alive. I mean this literally. The Anarchist had a very real chance of not being alive, but she is in fact very alive. She's vibrant, excited, angry, passionate, hilarious, ridiculous, and delightful. She is living her life with joyful intensity. It's like somehow she knows how lucky she is to have it and she's determined to milk it for all it's worth. I love that about her. And I hope she never loses her zealous desire for more and more life. Even if it means the cat gets squeezed a little too hard, the "butt" jokes are a little too loud, and she drinks more than her fair share of fair-trade organic chocolate milk.

Happy Birthday to my delightful, anarchy-y Anarchist! You make us smile every day!

The Anarchist with her newest potential-future-wife.
She rejects your social mores...and also your logic.