Nine.

"I want to do something"
That's always how it starts, those olive eyes staring up at me expectantly. Maybe this time, this time she'll drop everything and we'll all jet off to Disneyland. Not so much.

"So do something" goes my well thought out, deeply empathetic response. The woes of a child, plans to build a trap to catch fish in a river we do not own, nor are we going to anytime soon, dashed. A fort then. Every step planned, each move a reason, right, wrong, black, white. The oldest child wrestles with the injustices of each moment, gladiator puts up his shield while swinging blindly at the invisible foe.

Calm boy.

I'm reminded we're almost done. We've been charged with raising this one and we're at the half. His 9th birthday came and left, cake eaten, wrapping paper strewn. A mother's heart senses the change. We've peaked the mountain but no downhill coast lies ahead. Is the first nine really the decent? Baby is born, love flows, songs soothe, kisses heal. Too many memories now. Suckers no longer stop the tears, he knows it will hurt and what pain feels like. Cowlicks stick up randomly on bedhead, one of my first gifts. He asks me to cut the quesadilla he prepared while he pours his soup, the list of not allowed to do's diminishing every day. The tongue sharpens as his odor grows, the voice to soon deepen. I smile as he plays keep away from the zhu zhu's racing on the floor, still such a child.