No, YOU have a six year old! I surely don't, because people who have six year old children are old and I'm so young I've barely cleared six myself. I certainly do NOT have a six year old, Spiderman obsessed, football jersey sporting, little sister terrorizing, kindergarten going boy. A kid who, last night, brought home a handmade sight word book and read me the gosh darn thing like some kind of TEENAGER KID.
Okay, so maybe I do have a six year old. Maybe, while Mabel had a snack and some Sesame Street time this morning, I sat down and pulled up the story of Mister A's arrival (here) and cried a bit over the past gone-in-a-flash six years, over the sweet pink cheeked infant who seemed so BIG to me on this day in 2008, but who now, in comparison to the six year old boy who now occupies our household, looks impossibly tiny. I had no idea. I had no idea how September 17th would change everything. I had no idea how he'd grow so fast out of his babyhood that it's like it happened in our sleep one night. How he'd challenge us, how he'd inspire us, how he'd make us laugh every single day. How he'd thrive in some ways and struggle in other ways and just make me so darn proud in ALL his ways. I had no idea how those sacrifices I made to get him here - the endless appointments, the tears, the night-consuming fears, the discomfort of those insulin-checking finger pokes (and the excruciating, sweaty walks through the hottest summer EVER in Austin when too-high numbers flashed on the screen), the fifty pounds (FIFTY. DAMN. POUNDS.) - how those were all a trivially nominal price to pay for the kind of joy motherhood had in store. For that first slobbery kiss right on my lips, that first "luh-you", that first wobbly step into my arms. For his laughter, for his kind heart, for his uniquely Buggy ways. I'd do it all twenty times over again for the gift of this boy who made me Mom.
My Bug, six. Unbelievable.
1 hour ago