I don’t write about Graham as much as I did when he was a pre-schooler. I would post about stories like the swimming levels that he’d passed and that time HE POOPED ON THE TOILET. That was BIG NEWS, in those days.
As he’s grown older, I share less about his life. His stories aren’t mine to tell and he’s started to write his own stories. His life intersects with mine — it always will — but I try to respect his privacy. That said, I’m still a Mom, standing in front of a computer, asking my friends if they understand how I’m feeling.
This child of mine, my first born, will be nine this month. NINE. Because he is (almost) nine, he is not always ready for bed at 8:00 when his siblings are. He is allowed to stay up if he either reads or writes and on Saturday night, he wrote.
As I shared that photo and typed out his age I was a little bit gobsmacked. My firstborn is (almost) nine. ALMOST NINE.
I still remember the day of his birth and I remember that day when he was about six-months-old in the baby swing and I had him doing the belly laugh (at my hair)(babies love it) and I remember his Frankenstein first steps on Christmas Day and, oh.
I asked him yesterday if he was going to turn into a surly teenager who no longer puts his arm around me when singing at church or who wouldn’t let me hug him or who would no longer sit with me on the couch. He said no. I hope that’s our reality.