For Colin, Turning Nine

And so you are nine, my boy. I'm having something of a hard time getting my head around the fact that nine years ago I held you, this tiny (a whopping 5 lbs, 11 oz of you), calm, thoughtful creature who arrived so very considerately, 2 and a half weeks early, on a Thursday, my hellacious clinic day, so I didn't have to go to work tired and pregnant a day more.

Those have been some of your enduring traits: Your thoughtfulness, your compassion, your willingness to help out others.

(OK, so you gripe when asked to clean your room or set the table. I never said you were a freak, just that you are a really genuinely good person.)



You are also one amazing big brother to Sara, who, let's be honest, can be on the trying side from time to time. No one gets on your nerves like she does, but should something happen to her, anything from getting punished for doing something naughty to getting lost at the back of the bus on the way home, you are right there, protecting her.



(I swear that is not a posed picture. I just snapped it as it happened.)



Teaching her.

You still love the sciences. This year, instead of geology (although you still maintain an interest, just not such a consuming one), chemistry is your thing. I think most of this interest is that you think chemistry is in part making potions, which in a way it is, it's just that instead of turning you invisible if you drink the foaming contents of the beaker, you are likely to end up with a severe stomach ache, if you are lucky. Not wanting to burst this bubble, though, I have a feeling that Santa will be bringing you a bizarro chemistry set or two, so you can make some safe potions that won't turn out to be strychnine but green slime or a superball or something. Santa loves science nerds. Santa IS a science nerd. Yes she is.



Of course, this doesn't mean that you aren't a typical nine-year-old boy. No, it doesn't. You delight in fart jokes and poop jokes and really wanted to hand out whoopie cushions for party favors this year. A combination of how I'd feel as the parent of a fellow nine-year-old boy who brought home a whoopie cushion and used it non-stop for months on end and the fact that each one cost $5, led me to steer you to the quieter yet still twisted Chinese finger traps for your friends, along with water squirting grenades, mini Magic 8 balls and the like.



Speaking of your party this year, I'd say it was an unmitigated success. We took a page out of Chuck E. Cheeze's book and had all your friends over, stuffing all of you full of pizza and cake and then turning you all loose downstairs with the video games and the big TV for a couple of hours. 7 nine-year-olds all jumping up and down (because boys of that age are incapable of not jumping up and down while playing video games) at the same time and to the same rhythm nearly shook the cabinets from the house and the house from its foundation, but the structural damage to our little domicile was worth it. May I also say that you have really nice friends who all seem to think you are quite the great guy. As your mom, I can't tell you how that makes me grin big, stupid grins. If you continue to have great friends, you will be blessed, indeed. (And I'll worry less. Slightly less. Marginally. Maybe.)

So what I really wanted to say is how proud of you I am, how you make my heart swell, how thinking of you makes me get this big, sappy look on my face. I know, I'm embarrassing. All moms are when you get over the age of 5. But dammit, that's what you get for being so great.



But clearly, I'm not alone with this view, though at least I don't sit on you.