My eight-year-old

Dear William,

Today you approached me very seriously and said, "Mom, do you know why I love you and Daddy more than video games?"

"Why?"

"Because you guys are more important than all of that."

Then you paused.

"Mom, are dragons real?"

You are perfect.

You have such a cute way of waving your hands when you talk. It's hard to describe, but only you do it. "God could blow up this house like nothin'," and you spread your hands to depict the destruction.

Yesterday, on the way home from church, I asked Daddy if he'd heard the sermon, which was about the role of a father. He had been ushering, and he'd missed it. "Bummer," I said. "I wish you'd heard it. It would have been an encouragement for you to hear what a good job you're doing."

"Luckily," you interrupted from your spot between us in the front bench of the pickup, pulling out your little notebook with a tremendous flourish, "I wrote it all down." Grandma had helped you take notes, and you read to Daddy the six jobs of a father. "Do you think your dad is a good dad?" I asked you after you'd finished. "He's an awesome dad," you replied.

You gripe and groan at schoolwork, you love to read (especially your new Dog Man books), you sometimes abuse your oldest-sibling power, you prefer hanging out with me and Daddy to playing with your siblings, you take life at a relaxed pace, and you mess around a LOT.

You are perfect.