He's nine and a half. Moments like these don't happen all that often anymore.
Nine and a half. That's closer to 18 than it is to newborn. I'll never understand the time warp of being an adult. My childhood felt like it lasted twenty lifetimes. These adult years are spinning out of control. How'd he ever get so big?
He's an off-the-charts extrovert. He's never, ever met a stranger he couldn't turn into a friend in a matter of seconds. A spindly pile of skin and bones and stomach muscles. I've taken to accepting it when other people tell me that he looks like his father. Troy and I just exchange a knowing glance that says, "That fool is bat crap crazy, right there." He's like his father in so many ways that I couldn't deny paternity if I wanted to, but looks aren't one them.
I don't always think about infertility. I don't always remember what it was like to long so wildly for the thing that evaded me. But sometimes, when the lights are off and the children are asleep, I think about the quietness of life before them. The simplicity. The serenity. The sorrow.
It was different before.
No one called me mama. No one needed hugs and kisses and discipline. No one told me jokes about poop or laughed hysterical at the passing of gas. It's easy to think of all the ways I'm failing and all the things I've left undone. But in the end...this was all I ever wanted.
This boisterous boy who's quickly turning in to a miniature little man--and his kid brother--make all the difference between what might have been and a world of infinite possibilities.