nine.

He turned nine this weekend in a slow sayonara to eight that started with a flag football party on Friday and ended with squeeze cheese mac tonight.  He did it despite the nights I’ve told him I absolutely forbid it while I snuggled in bed rubbing his back.  Did it with the color green and with glow in the dark things and lots of treats.

Did it at the cabin, helping the men put up wood for the winter and flying around the woods on the Gator with his big cousins.  Did it with lunch with papa and the first call from nana (nana always calls first).  When asked, weeks ago, what he wanted his birthday to look like, he responded: bacon.  Lots of bacon.  A plate that just keeps getting refilled with bacon whenever it’s empty and me, playing minecraft for hours with no limits.

So he did it with bacon and minecraft too.  Not for hours and not with unlimited strips of bacon, but enough that I put the cardiologist on speed dial just in case.

Did it with a store bought cake-our first one-that bought me the time I needed to prepare for the party and make the cakes for our other birthday fetes and get ready for Christmas cookie day here tomorrow. And yes, my heart did sing when he declared it gross and said he could hardly wait for my gf pumpkin bars with cream cheese frosting dyed green with little UofM football guys on it.  Sang.

Did it by using said yucky cake as the foundation for a kit kat structure that he then nibbled on before running out for some glow-in-the-dark capture the flag.
And if I was still wondering after all these years, boys parties are so different from girl parties.  Girl parties smell good.  Boy parties smell like feet and brewing trouble.  Girl parties are civilized and neat.  Boy parties destroy the house and require rules like: no more jokes with the words toilet, butt or fart in them.  Yes Marlo Thomas, you can give William a doll, but he will rip it’s arm off, make a gun out of it and then use it to kill a small woodland creature.  I have seen this occur in real life.
So, now at the end of the day, when he is officially nine years old, he is upstairs with his brother making short films with the sound effects machine my sister gave him.  I’m here wondering what I ever did to make her hate me so much and rethinking the sweet gift I got her daughter for Christmas.  Thinking I might exchange it for a gift card to Justice.  Take that.
This is me being real.  Thankful for Peter and the nine years I’ve been gifted with him and praying for a thousand more with his brown-eyed self.  Because he blesses me, this kid with his snaggly teeth and blue specks and sweet personality.  Blesses me deep.

2 Replies to “nine.”

  1. Wouldn't trade that brown eyed, rough and tumble boy for anything. His laugh makes my whole day. Someday he'll actually walk into a room. and pass some small animal without the desire to kill it, and you will miss the Peter of now.

    love him and you deep

    Like

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