My Boy is Eight

Picture to come, I swear, of my eight-year old and his green cast.

We had crepes for breakfast, and a birthday sign. He had a candle in his crepe, he played Happy Birthday to himself at piano and we sang along (me, Benji and Gigi) and we had lasagna and Capri cake for dessert, with vanilla ice cream. He got a mountain of books and legos and he is so very happy. No homework for a night.

I asked him how seven had been.

"I liked it," he said. "I can pretty much do everything now."

"Like what?" I asked.

"I can make food, I can grow food. I can read. I can swim. I can do pretty much everything I need to do."

It was wise, and true.

I am not ready to leave him, we have so much more to teach. But if he were on his own, abandoned, or we died, he would be fine. Not just fine, he would be great. He could survive in the shanty towns of Rio, or the streets of Hollywood, or in a forest. I am not saying it would be easy, but he can read people, do math, sell things, find good people, and navigate. He is good and has a moral compass. He could take care of his brother, too.

He just feels grown-up.

He has brought so much joy into my life. Oh how I used to roll my eyes when people said that childhood flies by. But my boy is almost eight--halfway done. Holy Macaroni!