Drewby-Dooby-Doo

I woke this morning to the sound of little boy chatter downstairs.  I should have known that on his birthday I would not have to pry and beg Drew from his bed, but that he would be downstairs bouncing with anticipation long before my alarm clock set me to the work of breakfast and backpack searches.

Mom guilt forced me to fling my legs over the side of the bed and sit upright.  I didn't want Drew to think he wasn't special enough to warrant his mother getting out of bed early to greet him on his special day.  I descended to the living room and wished my six year old boy, who promised to stop growing when he reached seven, a happy birthday.  I fitted him with his traditional birthday crown and then threw some chocolate chips into pancake batter.  Tiny things, really, but a crown and chocolate chips tug the boy's cheeks into an even bigger toothless smile, and then it's on to presents. 

He chose his own gifts this year.  I think I like it that way better.  No wishing for something you aren't going to get. And he ordered them from the internet so long ago that he forgot what they were until he opened them.  A stuffed animal, a video game, and Pass the Pigs, which we played at our table when Andrew and I took Drew out to lunch after school.  Drew won most of the time.

It's kind of tragic for me to see Drew reach this six year old milestone.  His face is shedding the "little" in favor of being just "boy".  He has more grown up opinions, fewer fears, and almost no inclination to sit on my lap.  It's hard to see him need me less and want me even less than he needs me.  He's growing up, and before much longer every trace of the munchkin with the cupie-doll face and the wildly unpredictable mouth will be gone.  He'll be a smelly adolescent with adult teeth too big for his face and a larger arsenal of vocabulary for that unpredictable mouth.

But for now, I can probably squeeze a few more bedtime stories and goodnight kisses out of the boy.  I will surely miss them when they're gone.