Nine Is Fine

Chandler is nine years old today. Typically, I melodramatically pontificate about how desperately I want the calendar pages to stop flipping or how I need for the days that rush by too fast to slow way down. Usually I whine about how I’m not ready to accept that another year has rapidly passed me by even though there was never a moment I wasn’t looking. Customarily, I whimper about the innate urge I have to curl up in the corner of my son’s bedroom and stare at him as he sleeps so I don’t MISS ONE MINUTE of the time I am given.

But I’m not going to do any of that.




I’m not going to be dramatic today about the impatience of Mr. Time and his hurriedness with the clock. I’m not going to ramble on about the memories that flood me of Chandler as an infant when that orthodontic smile awakens and realizes that this is the day he becomes nine. And I’m not going to open the albums that remind me of his chubby legs as a toddler, or the toothless grin as a preschooler, all the while listening to sad music that provides proper background for the ugly cry.

No, I’m not going to do any of that.



I will be happy about the progression of another birthday because he is. For his sake, not mine, I will celebrate the number of years that creeps towards the maternal kryptonite known as independence even though it has the power to bring me to my knees. I will join in wholeheartedly on all of the fanfare, knowing that his joy brings about my own.

I’m not going to be melodramatic about his birthday this year.



I’m not going to be dramatic.




I’m not.




Well, maybe just a little.


Happy birthday, sweet boy. You bring us so much joy.

Love,
Your melodramatic, but well-intentioned mom.