Tomorrow, Briton will be ten. I don't quite see how that can be possible, because he was just a baby, and a toddler, and a kindergartner and so he can't possibly be ten, but he is. In a few weeks he will start fifth grade which here, thankfully, is only the second to last year in elementary school, allowing me to pretend that I do not have a tween or an almost middleschooler for just a little longer.
Ten is so very big. There are so many things that he asks if he can do, ride his bike to the road to get the mail, try out my old BB gun (with supervision), go for a walk by himself, use the stove, use the phone, that I instinctively want to say "no, you aren't old enough for that". Except now, he is. Oh boy.
Today he had his before school checkup and the nurse pointed out that he has two more inches to go until he can legally ride in the front seat of a car. I had somehow imagined that that was years away but two inches, given the way he's been wolfing down food of late, is probably a mere six months, or less, from now. Holy cow. Ten.
He is impatient today. Impatient for tomorrow. For ten.
"Do you think if I went to sleep now I could sleep all day and night and wake up and it would be my birthday?"
"Maybe we could build a time machine so that I can go forward a day and open my presents!"
"I just can't wait until tomorrow. I can't WAIT."
I can understand that. Ten was one of my favorite years of my childhood. I remember turning ten, being ten, knowing that I was double digits. Huge! Practically a grownup! Ten is a good year. It was always my favorite number. Ten in exciting.
I, on the other hand, am slightly panicky. Because if tomorrow he is ten, then suddenly he will be fifteen, or twenty. Ten years from now used to be a time when he would be bigger, but still a kid. Now, in ten years, he will be a man.
Holy cow. Ten.
