A letter to my seven year old.

I’m not going to lie: You’re really going to have to up your game if this coming year is to hold a candle to the last one. 

Just think of all the things you did for the first time as a six year old…

**You rode a school bus. Which took you to kindergarten. All day. Every. Day. I’m exhausted just typing about it. 

**You learned to write. Sort of. I mean, your spelling is equal parts adorable and atrocious, but you get an A for effort and for somehow figuring out how to complete sentences with either no vowels, or only vowels, depending I guess on your mood. 

**You learned to read. Holy shit, how the world has cracked open for you in magical, mysterious newness. More on that in a minute. 

**You lost teeth and made friends and gained new knowledge by the truckload. 

**You learned some ways to be a better teammate, how to make a really good couch cushion fort, and about “time and place,” like when and where it’s appropriate to make loud and surprisingly realistic farting sounds or to use your middle finger. 

**You learned just how much you hate when things feel unfair. You have a seriously overdeveloped sense of justice; very, very little in your world is fair, and it pisses you off. 

GOOD.

Because, baby, it doesn’t get any better on this side of adulthood, even though it seems like, by now, us grown-ups should have figured out how to share and how to take turns, how to speak kindly and respectfully, how to include and welcome and embrace. We’re still learning, too, honey. It will help us all if you continue to see unfairness in the world and call us on it. 

(I'm holding firm on this one, though: Salmon for dinner is not “unfair,” it’s “heart healthy.”)

And still, you put yourself out there, over and over again. On the soccer field, on the playground, in your classrooms, here in the safe haven of home. 

You shy away from nothing, you brave, brave boy. 

And so your world just keeps getting bigger. 

Not much gets by you. You are an observer, a take-noter, a “let’s go see” kind of kid. 

So here’s what I want from you, from seven and upward. 

Don’t just notice the world around you — acknowledge it. 

Acknowledge when people are speaking to you. Look them in the eye. Recognize their interest in you. Return it. 

Point it out when something catches your interest. Sparks your curiosity. Maybe not, like, literally pointing, which we’ve had to talk through a few awkward times, but note it. Mention it. See where you sense differences and question discrepancies. 

And read. Read, Emmett. Be a reader. What a gift you’ve given yourself by mastering this new skill. Read voraciously. Read everything. 

Because you know what readers are? 

(Bookworms. Dorks. Nerds. I’ve been called worse, son, trust me.) 

Readers are frickin’ smart. 

They’re well-educated and well-rounded and articulate and interesting. 

And just as importantly, readers are empathetic citizens. Because to read means to allow yourself to take in someone else’s thoughts, and perspective, and vulnerabilities. You won’t like everyone you read about, just like you won’t like everyone you meet. But the more you can imagine where they might be coming from — where they might have been — the more you can see when something is unfair (really unfair, not salmon unfair) and, my little love, the better equipped you’ll be to help fix it. 

The world is out there, and wide, and yours. 

Be cognizant of it, and kind to it. 

How I love you, Emmett James.