Today marks the day that nine years Warren Michael arrived on the scene. Nine years ago that Mike and I embarked on this journey called parenthood. Nine years ago that we ended our weekends of Law and Order marathons, ordering delivery pizza and worrying about no one but ourselves.
Nine. N, I, N, E, nine years old. Bye bye baby, bye bye toddler, bye bye kiddo. Hello young man. Young man who is as handsome as ever, but who now stinks. Yes indeed, he stinks like a smelly boy. A smelly boy who despises all things related to hygiene including but not limited to: showers, deoderant, brushing teeth, hair cuts and fingernail trims. A smelly boy who gets all sweaty playing basketball but doesn't want to bother changing clothes. A smelly boy who wants to live his life in running pants and t-shirts - so much so that the suggestion of jeans or gasp, cordouroys, can bring him to tears.
He's a nine year old who perfers to communicate at a minimal level. You know, like his father. Warren used to get so excited about things. Now, his excitement sounds the same as his unimpressed; the same as his status quo; the same as his good day. "How was your day Warren?" Fine. "How'd the test go?" Fine. "Anything exciting happen at school?" Nope. "You wanna have ice cream for breakfast, lunch and dinner today?" Sure. "Warren, the house is on fire and we have to get out right now." Okay. The only time I can get him to chat it up is when I choose either Harry Potter or Legos as my subject. For reals. And on those two things, he's some sort of expert. And I, alas, am a muggle and am quite lego impaired.
A perk of this nine year old business is that he does embarass easily, but at the same time still finds his mom funny and therefore doesn't hold a grudge. THANK GOD! As long as I don't focus all my embarassing behavior on him, he finds me amusing. I'm not sure how much longer I have with that.
And please note for the file - nine year old boys have a hard time figuring out if they are big kids or little kids. And because they can't decide, they alternate between both. This is tough on not only the nine year old boy, but the friends he plays with too and his parents. Will I have the big helper today who wants to talk to me like an adult? Or will I have the child who will throw a fit telling me "it's not fair" and "I'm the meanest mom ever"? It's anyone's guess.
But this young man - this smelly, mono-syllabic, easily embarassed nine year old boy of mine can still be as kind hearted, generous, smart and sensitive as ever. He'll have days of smelly jerk boy followed by a week of sweet Warren with the heart of gold. I'm thrilled beyond words when that kid shows up. He'll help me without being asked, open doors, share his candy,take care of his sister, ask me how I am, give me a hug for no reason, follow the rules without being reminded etc. Somehow he knows to return to himself when I am at my wits end with him. And the glimpse of my sweet son reassures me that this too shall pass. That he's in there, and he's awesome, and we'll make it through these growing pains.
He's a tall drink of water still, and in no time I'm sure he'll be taller than me. He's a fabulous student who adores his teacher and learning. He's an avid reader, and burns through book as fast as I do. He loves playing sports, playing wii and learning new games. He's a saver, not a spender. He's a thinker, a worrier and a planner. He's addicted to carbs and has favorite foods, but he's willing to try new foods at least once. He loves his family. He's polite to adults. He's easy to get along with. He's totally figured out the sarcasm thing. He has a smile that crinkles in the corners and a little michevious giggle that'll warm your heart. He excels at making other kids feel at ease. He's strong willed but open minded. I'm so proud of him that at times I think I could burst. I watch him and think, 'he's mine. He's good. Clearly I'm not the worst mother ever.'
But then I ask him to put on jeans and a collared shirt, and I'm immediately reminded otherwise.
Nine. Nine is fun...ish.
Happy Birthday my Warren. My Dubby-T. My Warren G and the G Funk Era. Elaine's Dubsie Wubsie. Mike's G. I love you. We all do.
