Today is Dylan’s birthday. Not his birthday party day or his practice birthday, but his actual birthday. He’s six years old. I’m honestly not sure how any of this happened. I mean, seriously, how did he go from this…
Sources tell me this is commonly referred to as growing up, but I don’t believe them because if I’m not getting any older – and I’m not – how on earth is he?
On previous birthdays, this alleged growing up phenomenon wasn’t a big deal because even when Dylan went from two to three or three to four years old, I could still squeeze his chubby thighs, sing songs to him at bedtime, and kiss his boo boos to make them feel better. But on this birthday – this sixth birthday – I have mixed emotions because I’m quickly realizing that six is so much different than five. Here’s how (in no special order):
- He has no more soft baby fat for me to squeeze. In fact, his body is hard and strong.
- He prefers Band-aids over kisses for boo boos.
- He wears basketball sneakers to school because his friends do.
- Boxers or briefs? Boxers! Thank goodness they’re still covered with superheroes.
- He answers yes/no questions with, “oh yes it is,” or, “oh yes they are.” (Example: Dylan, is your shirt in the laundry basket? Oh yes it is. Dylan, are your pictures on the bulletin board at school? Oh yes they are.) This might have nothing to do with his age, but I’m taking the liberty of making a correlation since it just started this week.
- Picking him up feels inappropriate, and, quite frankly, requires more upper body strength than I can muster. At this point, he should carry me.
- He can tuck in his shirt. Sort of.
- He prefers showers to baths.
- He doesn’t need help in the bathroom anymore. I won’t bore you with the details, but I was beginning to wonder (i.e worry) if he was going to need my help in the bathroom in college, which would’ve been a logistical nightmare.
- He appeases his irrational little brother if I ask him nicely. Sometimes.
- He uses the “men’s room.” On his own. Occasionally. Depending on the place, the crowd, my anxiety level, and/or the strength of my pedophile radar).
- Yesterday, he called me Mom (i.e. not Mommy). I’m trying hard to pretend it never happened.
One thing that hasn’t changed at all is the whining. There appears to be just as much whining at age six as there was at age five. In fact, it might actually be worse.
Happy birthday, Dylan! Mommy (not Mom) loves you!