He turned 6.
Without much fanfare this year.
And half of the celebrations were with the little sister in tow. Being the little trooper he is, no complains but rather, he was the one who insisted on celebrating it together (their birthdays fall in the same month) when we suggested otherwise.
When I wanted to write this post, all I had in mind was to grumble and rant. About how difficult he had been of late. Of his seemingly mindless tantrums. His whininess.
Then it struck me. That maybe all he is looking for is just that bit more love and attention.
A bit more time.
A little more figuring out for himself his identity and finding his way around.
And to remember his independence.
His laughter and smile.
His care for the elderly.
And for me to remember that at the heart of it, he’s still my firstborn. My son. And six, an adult in his own eyes but still rightfully a child. A fact that eludes me at times when I expect him to act otherwise.
Blessed birthday, my son. Thank you for being ours, and so precious in our lives.