Believe it or not, today Son is 8. Eight! I swear I just gave birth to that boy, carried his 10 pound body around inside my body, felt him turn and twist my guts.
He still twists my guts, but in different ways. He's adorable and smart. He's argumentative and a pain in the ass (where does he get that from?). He reads like crazy now (again, wherefore?), and he's getting so tall, he reaches my shoulder. I can still pick him up, but barely.
I love that he loves to watch "American Idol" with me, and we even voted last night. Why not? He loves The Beatles and REM, he got his first stitches last year (something tells me, not his last), he loves The Hardy Boys and Captain Underpants, he's an artist and a writer and a thinker.
I'm worried about going to London for 3 weeks, leaving him and Middlebrow. Oh, I know they'll be fine, but what about me? When I see a painting in the Tate, I'll think, "Son would love this." I hope I get to go back with both of them someday.
For now, I'll cherish the tiny moments, like last night, watching AI, when he pulled my arm around him, or when we speed-decorated 24 cookies for his birthday during the commercial breaks.
Happy Birthday, Son! Now please stop growing up. I can't take it.