He’s 9. Nine. NINE.

At this moment, 9 years ago, I had a 3.5 hour old baby boy. I was high on endorphins, scarfing down a plate of pasta someone had brought me from Romeo's, and in a state of shock over what had just happened.

A baby.

A baby?


I was so surprised that he had a smell – a real person smell on that tiny head! The tiniest fingers I'd ever seen. What appeared to be abnormally long monkey toes. I just marveled over him. And I still do, nine years later.

Eight pounds, seven ounces has turned into giant kid almost as tall as me. He's so smart, so funny, so deeply conscious of the world around him. He is now a kid at an age where I vividly remember being a kid. I find that almost as startling as I found the real human smell on his tiny baby head.

He is, now, who he will be – essentially – forever. Sure, he will have experiences that will change him. He will grow and learn. But that spark in him right now – that light of personality – that is who he will always be. He's not a baby anymore. But he is still my wee one. My big boy.

If you ever have some time to spare, I invite you to go over to the side there and click on "archives". I started this blog when the wee one was not quite 2. So many funny tales of a little boy coming into his own. And now he's 9. Still a boy, but so much more.

Nine years.



Happy birthday, crazyface. Your mama loves you, permanent markers and all.

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