13 going on 10

Quinn turned ten. He crossed that threshold into double digits, and I'm surprisingly mournful about it. His doctor said recently that physically he is already 13, a surprise to no one, but his tender heart is still ten, and very much mine, and I never want that to change.

T and I were reflecting how it has come to be that our gentle giant is now ten, and he reassured me by saying, "In all fairness, Quinn has been ten since he was one." It's so true. He spoke in full sentences by 6-7 months, and used to point to the night sky and say so sweetly, "Have it, the moon?" He used to pull the hair on T's chest and say, "Papa has a lot of grass on his chest!" He was the most loving baby in the world, and that hasn't changed, though he is establishing, to my heartache, some autonomy. He's a boy, and plays Halo, and watches these You Tube videos about geeks that, really, are so painful, I wonder if he should be in a special helmet. Last year for his birthday he wanted Legos, and this year he wanted video grabbers, splicing thingies, connector cables, and all the apparatus that mark his entry into tween geekdom. Sigh.

I had my babies 17 months apart, which was totally insane. Sometimes, when I would be rocking them both all day, having long forgotten about showers and food, I'd remember the words of Erma Bombeck: "The days are long but the years are short." While it was profoundly true, it gave me very little comfort then, and sadly, it gives me less comfort now, now that they are half grown. Soon I will release them into the wild, and am bound to love them, no matter what. Even if they opt out of college (gasp!), get ugly piercings, drive motorcycles, date losers, or pull some goth bullshit. Obviously, becoming Republicans is the deal breaker, and I'd no longer be obligated to love them. But I still would. They're my babies, and I'm so not ready to let go. I'd still carry them to bed if Quinn wasn't taller than me, and if Reilly didn't have a 100-piece menagerie that require being transported in a very specific series of blankets and strings.

Now they cook, text their friends, have sovereignty over their hair (shudder), clothing, Quinn drives, and they know more about my phone and the computer than I do. I know should be grateful, and I am, but their independence is a double-edged sword. Quinn is best friends with his dad, which melts my heart, since fabulous fathers are tragically scarce, but I grab him up and hold him as often as he'll let me.

So to commemorate his passage into near-adulthood, we lavished him with video equipment galore, and between Papa, aunties, and both grandmas, the kid raked in enough cash to buy some property. We all went to Red Robin, where I managed not to have a panic attack, and then back home for his succulent Konditerei cake.

Happy birthday my precious boy, you've made me the happiest mama ever!

Quinn and Rei nestled in the loot:


Rei opening her card:


The cake, which I could not eat, which I did eat:


Quinny's great big card-o-cash:


Cherished Halo action figures: