Seven!

They can only be serious for about 2 seconds...

Then Jack starts goofing off and Henry can't help but laugh and try to hide it. The photo shoots typically end here.

Do you remember when George Costanza of "Seinfeld" fame suggested naming a child Seven? Or Soda?

I didn't go so far as to name any of our kids Seven (though we came close to naming George "Four" as David waited until thirty minutes after George's birth to engage in a naming discussion with me, beginning by paging through his corporate directory and muttering "No...No...No...How 'bout Lance? Like Lance Armstrong?"

No.

"...Tristan?"

NO!

And on it went until he left the room for a soda and I called the birth certificate department and told them to put George David on the certificate and call it a day. When he returned, I told him it was George David or Four. I think he'd learned by that point not to mess with me until at least 72 hours post-delivery, so George it was.

Anyhoo, I digress (again).

Today, Jack and Henry turned seven.

I lazily lay in our less-than-optimally-comfortable hotel bed this morning and was reliving their delivery in my mind (which isn't the most pleasant of memories, frankly. Worth it, but not terribly pleasant) when someone with a very loud voice started poking me (hard) and yelling, "GRACE! GRACE! WHERE IS JACK?"

"Henry," I answered. "I don't know. I'm sleeping. And I'm not Grace."

He trotted back into the living area and opened the door over and over hoping to catch a glimpse of his brother, undoubtedly to scream to him that it was their birthday (just in case Jack didn't know). 

I called him back into the bedroom and said, "Henry, Happy Birthday!"

"Happy Birthday," he responded.

"Henry, it's YOUR birthday. You don't have to wish ME Happy Birthday."

"I wasn't," he clarified. "I was wishing myself a happy birthday."

Happy 7th to the sweetest, loudest, craziest, most creative, most frustrating, most lovable, most terrifying, most amazing 7-year-olds I know.