01 October 2013
Owen turned eight and it's blowing my mind. Eight years of being a parent. Eight years of this guy.
About this year I will remember how he again and again rose to the occasion--in the face of so much that was scary and confusing and just plain not-fun. I will remember how independent he is becoming--cooking, biking, soccer, time with friends. I can't remember the last time he asked for help getting dressed in the morning.
I will remember his still-innocent wisdom. And how he explained to me that "sexy" means "someone who wants to make a lot of money. I think. Lady Gaga is sexy, right?" I'll remember how he still reaches for his hole blankie at bedtime, and when he's upset, but he sometimes forgets to bring it in the car for the ride to school. I will remember the sound of his voice and Elliott's on the other side of the window, inventing worlds on the front porch together. I will remember his ardent love for his new baby sister--how the two of them dissolve into smiles when they see one another after time apart.
Things are changing with this parenting gig, I can feel it. and I can't say that I'm ready. But gosh am I glad to be figuring things out with him.