My little man is about to become Master 9. Only 9, still barely a boy.
And I have been busy getting prepared for birthday parties and cakes, and RSVPs and helping some troubled friends out and working and having a broken car and you know, life.
During this I overheard a conversation between Dear Hubby and his mum talking about the upcoming birthday and so on.
DH: I am not looking forward to this birthday.
MIL: Why is that?
DH: Well, he is turning 9. That means he is halfway to being an adult. He is halfway to being no longer mine. And I know that we only have them on loan, but I am not ready to be halfway done.
It was like an epiphany.
DH and I often talk about having our kids ‘on loan’. And how, if we are doing our jobs as parents right, that raising them is about staged independence. About incremental portions of letting them go, allowing them to slowly become less and less reliant on us.
And my eldest is halfway there.
I recall being told we could not have children, the multiple miscarriages and the surprise and worry when it looked like I would carry you to term.
I recall bringing you home, the joy of having you wake and smile, the tears and frustration of failing to successfully breastfeed, the terror of resuscitating you when you choked and died. The joy when you first walked on Mothers Day up the hall when I got home from work. The pride I have when I look at you, even when you are sleeping. The heart-bursting joy when I see how wonderful you are as a big brother. The sheer pleasure of watching you run, colour, build, climb, and just be.
Happy Birthday this weekend my dear boy.
Because your very first birthday was the beginning of something very wonderful for your dad and I.