him …

I have this beautiful boy. Somehow, he is 9 years old.

9 years.

9 years of motherhood. 9 years of feelings that knock you sideways in their intensity. The joy, the fear, the happiness, the frustration. The love.

The love.

The love.

He is perfect.

He is ridiculously tall and impossibly thin, he has a million crooked teeth far too big for his tiny little jaw, he has a mop of thick dirty blonde hair that was once the colour of snow.

He can be rude and obnoxious far too frequently but will come back five minutes later and tell me he is sorry, and mean it. His attitude is all pre-teen boundary pushing angst, but he still runs into our room to climb into bed with us several nights a week. He is astoundingly clever but often couldn’t be bothered. He is all cool and I don’t care but can break your heart with his insecurity. He has the most incredible pale blue eyes. He is beautiful.

He is funny and wise and sweet and annoying. He detests most things that relate to any sort of sporting activity and adores anything to do with technology and computers. He is starting his own blog, with tips for children on how to program computers. I’m not sure how large his readership will be but my heart smiles when I see the spark in his eyes. He is his father’s son, in oh so many ways but he has my love of people, he shares my joy in company.

He is quirky and left of centre, he is a fabulous dancer but will not let anyone teach him how to. He hears a drumbeat all his own and moves to that, his way. He is an amazing writer. He is a reader of any and every book he can get his hands on. He likes to know what everyone, everywhere, is talking about. He has the best hearing of anyone I know. He is creative and unstoppable when he is engaged in something he is interested in. He is impossible to get started on anything else.

He is gob smackingly self-centred but the sweetest big brother that ever lived to his wild, demanding baby sister. He adores and resents his brother in equal measure. He can be as mean as he can be kind to him. I hope he chooses kindness more often than not.

He has a cubby house full of nerf guns even though we were always going to be a ‘no-guns’ kind of family. There were 19 at last count.After his gadgets, they are his favourite things.

He is complicated and intense and over thinks the simplest of things. He is incredibly fun and fabulous company. He used to believe he could do anything and we are desperately trying to help him hold on to that. I see age and subtle knocks and society putting dents in his sense of his incredible self and it makes my chest tighten.

I want him to keep seeing himself like he used to, like we do.