The Pi

Saturday morning, March 14th, 2of3 came into my room at 7 am and said, "Mom, it's seven!"

I said humnaschmurna blageldorf.

He came back at 8 am and said, "Mawwwm, it's EIGHT."

I said okaerg.

At 8:30 I shook The Donor awake and we headed downstairs. The kids were all on the couch watching cartoons and three bowls of Lucky Charms were decomposing like Johann Pachelbel on the kitchen table.

So began my son's ninth year. He opened his gifts, and by "opened" I mean "looked behind our backs" because really, I suck at even thinking about wrapping things.

Which totally explains why I have a nine year old. Bygones.

We sat on the couch and read the pages in his baby book were I'd scribbled out the story of his exodus*. I showed him which bones of his caught on which bones of mine making an otherwise run-of-the-mill labour last two motherfucking glorious days. I billed him for the previous year, like I always do, and he promised to pay me in Reese's Pieces one day, like he always does.


I was disappointed that it was raining, so he couldn't go out to ride his new skateboard. He thought it was totallywickedawesome that he was allowed to ride it in the house just this once. He thought the tie he chose for dinner that he'd clearly outgrown a year ago looked 'mature', I thought it looked like a great opportunity to explain the joys of 'business casual'. He loved how his hair looked with the half jar of pomode he'd gooped into it, I thought he looked like Hitler after a rumble with The Jets.

So it goes with the boy born on the day of Relativity.


He had his very own steak at the restaurant that night, and no one even tried to cut it for him. He got the big knife and the huge dessert and the happy birthday song by the staff at the restaurant where they Do Not Sing happy birthday for anyone. He got to sit in the front seat with dad and choose the radio station and tonight as we tucked him in, he got double jumped with tickles and a million kisses.

So ended the first day of my son's ninth year.

No matter how old he gets, how mature he grows, he's still that baby boy I met nine years ago. When I saw his little face for the first time,  I knew him, like I'd always known him, like he was an old friend.   He looked like a lizard, but that's totally beside the point.  I knew he's walk the paths I did, only with more grace.  I knew he'd pick up where I left off and soar.  He's a mirror of me, all of his grandeur, and every one of his flaws.  He's what I'd hoped I could be and more.  Because he's him, and I'm pretty damn glad I got a piece of him.


*God, there are just so many Red Sea/parting thereof jokes to be made there, but I'm betting I'll be in enough trouble for defiling my poor son's birthday post as it is. You, however, can feel free to have at it.