Today we are celebrating Dubya turning eight years old. Eight. This is a hard number for me to wrap my head around for some reason. It isn’t a milestone birthday. It isn’t the end of childhood or the beginning of the tweens. But this one. This one is hitting me hard. I don’t know why.
This kid asks hard questions. He tells stories that never end and have no real point. He has horrible handwriting. He is the king of bad puns. He loves to dance. He is really good at eating just enough to sustain life. He is polite. He has a strong sense of right and wrong. He is a nerd.
He adores his sister. He adores pestering his sister. He idolizes his daddy. He tolerates my shenanigans.
He is a little boy one minute (Mom, all I really want is the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle sewer lair playset) and an eighty year old man the next (Mom, I need a farmer’s almanac)! He is a worrywart. He is handsome like his daddy. He is a ham.
He is strong and smart and funny and a thousand other things all rolled into one pretty amazing kid.
He is my son. And I am so very grateful for that.
