He turned nine this week.
This boy who is probably developing a permanent curve in his back from being hunched over LEGOs for hours on end.
This boy who still jumps up and says, "Watch this, Mommy!" His scientific mind always creating, undaunted: "Just because of my smartness I might know it."
This boy who seems to think that if he adds the phrase "a bit" to a sentence it somehow grants him immunity. Such as a recent comment to me, "You're a bit big."
Or (horror of horrors) a lovely comment to his piano teacher (aka his grandmother) during lessons: "Your breath smells a bit like borscht."
We celebrated this child on Wednesday. As Miss Kate said, "You're king of the day, Aidan!"
King Aidan chose pancakes for breakfast. For dinner? Steak, baked beans, and cole slaw. He's his father's son.
The dessert request was rather specific, too. Chocolate cupcakes with blue frosting and mint chocolate chip ice cream. I didn't complain.
We gathered round the table and I opened the book that chronicles snippets of time long past. Here I've recorded kid words and phrases and antics. We go back on special occasions like this and laugh over what once was.
My heart aches a bit though, too. To hold nine years in book form and to see how quickly it's all sped by. Right down to Aidan's own prophetic words at age five: "When I'm nine I'll forget this day and what I said."
I wrote it down that day. Sure enough, we did forget the day. But we kept at least one line of words. Words keep.
We kept other words, too. The words that reminded us of the time that he walked into the kitchen with marker all over his face. When questioned he casually shrugged, "I just wanted to look awesome."
Words are powerful. I turn to the page that holds words of a five-year-old Aidan who sighed, "I'm glad that you're my mommy and that you're here."
Something catches in my throat. Tears blur my vision and I know exactly what my words would be, should they be written down this day.
I'm glad that you're my son and that you're here.