In 2005, I wrote for the first time the birth story of my son. He was turning four.

In 2006, I created a slideshow to commemorate his fifth birthday. It wasn’t very good because frustrated me almost to tears.

In 2007, I couldn’t believe that I now had a six year old. I was also in the beginning of my pregnancy with Aitch and I wondered if he would ever really become a big brother.

In 2008, for his seventh birthday I got lazy (like this year) and linked to the past years’ celebrations. I even included some cute pictures.

And then in 2009…he was an amazing eight years old. Too old to be called “my little boy”. I recapped his birth on this blog since most of those who were reading weren’t back in 2005. We were all different people.

Friday, he turned nine. To me it was a monumental birthday in that this is the last year of single digit birthdays. As I tucked him in on Friday, I smoothed his hair from his forehead for a kiss. He had been in trouble earlier that day and feelings were still raw with anger and resentment. I said, “It’s not easy, this getting older and having to grow up, is it?” “No,” he muttered back.

I then knelt by his bed and told him that I would like nothing more than for him to be three years old again; when he was still of the age and size to sit on my lap or even once in a while, let me rock him at bedtime. Things were easier for all of us then. He didn’t have a will of his own nor could he offer valid opinions. I told him that growing up isn’t just about growing taller. It means more responsibilities and making decisions. Mistakes will be made but growing up means learning from those mistakes. But that’s when we know we’re growing up, when life’s little lessons are no longer easy.