I was looking at an old blog post of mine this morning. A post (when I actually had more readers) that I'd written about infertility, and wanting baby #2...and it brought us back 8 years and to bad outfits in San Fran ... but I digress. It brought me back to my little cherub.
As we approach 2010, I realize that it will be the year that my baby boy turns 10.
No longer baby, all boy, and approaching young manhood. He loves playing soccer, he loves playing tennis, he snowboards, he break dances, he wears a cool toque, a checked shirt, tartan-lined hoodie, skinny jeans with holes at the knees and his high top Converse ... all this at an age when I was getting my first blackheads. And he's incredibly sweet and good-natured (when he's done his daily harassment of his younger sister ritual).
"How many girls in your class hate you now?" I asked him this morning as I plated his breakfast (and by plated, in case you think I'm getting fancy, I mean, slopped his omelette on...).
"Uh, pretty much all of them."
Which in real terms means that we're in big trouble come Valentine's Day.