Birthdays can be hard for people. I know people who have denied having a birthday since they turned 21. I know others who went headlong into a serious depression upon hitting thirty. Or forty. Those who bemoan every birthday.
Not me. I used to look forward to turning certain ages – 10, 13, 16, 18, 21… but now it’s just another birthday. I have to stop to think about how old I am, but it truly doesn’t matter to me. Milestone birthdays aren’t a milestone to me.
And I know people who have the same issues with their children. They lament no longer having a child whose age they count in months. They lament starting preschool or kindergarten.
Not me. One. Fine. Two. Three. Four. Five. I enjoyed watching Mister Man grow.
And on Sunday, he turned six. It first dawned on me when he came home from school on Friday. I was fine sending him to school with the macaroni and cheese for the food pantry and the cherry brownie bites. When he got out of my friend’s car with the crown announcing he was six, I gasped.
He’s really turning six. He’s no longer a little boy; he’s actually turning into a big kid. I love the fact that he’s growing up, but … it really hit me hard. And now I’m dreading when he turns 10, 13, 16, 18, 21.
But no matter what, he’ll always be my little boy. I get it now when my mom says that.
(See the boy crying in the sideview? Apparently in his world, all presents are his, and he didn’t take well to being told Mister Man was going to get to keep them. Such a cutie, though! Mister Man, on the other hand, was T-H-R-I-L-L-E-D to get his Legos. “I never dreamed I’d ever get these!” he enthused.)
PS That’s the cake Grandma made him, not mine.