Remember when birthdays held that magical anticipation and excitement? Long ago, I used to count down the days to my summer birthday, planning the party, requesting my cake (always a Carvel vanilla/chocolate ice cream cake with extra cake crunchies) and, of course, making that list of a few toys I couldn’t live without. And although my view of birthdays has changed (sort of – I still like the Carvel cake), my children now carry on the tradition of eager celebration.
My son turned 6 a couple of months ago. 6. That’s big. Six means he’s no longer a toddler. It means I can’t buy him 5T clothes anymore, I have to shop in the kids’ section. It means he’ll be gone all day for school in the fall. It means he’s starting to get embarrassed about kissing me goodbye at the bus stop.
But it also means he’s brought six years of joy to our household. Our house where pink tutus, blue nail polish and moody hormones ruled for seven years before his arrival. A house where my husband was so outnumbered that he was envisioning moving into the guest cottage in a few years when all three girls would be in high school at the same time.
So as I step on Legos, change batteries in lightsabers and wash Spider Man undies, I am grateful for every change this little man brings. As each of his sisters has proven before him, life’s always an adventure.