For years now, Chase has fought me on his age. On some level, the last year he remembers well is the one he turned two, right before the tumor. For years now, as I’ve told him the next numbers, he’s insisted that he was still only two. I finally got him to admit to five, but it’s usually a fight. But just last week, he came and plopped down next to me on the couch. “Mom, I’m ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“I’m ready to be six. I know it’s six now and I’m okay with it. I’m ready.”
I smiled and kissed his fuzzy head. “That’s great, Chasey-bear.”
“And Mom, after that, can I be seven and then eight and then nine?”
Yes, a thousand times, YES . . . please.
Today, my precious, stubborn, tenacious, beat-the-odds, stare-it-down, never-say-die, don’t-mess, you-and-what-army Chase turns six with great joy.
And I’d love to reflect at greater length, but the present is waiting right next to me and the present has his birthday crown on and he’s begging me to open gifts. He asked me to share that he’s “thankful for Bapa and chicken and that he likes his birthday and his presents.”
We are so thankful for another year of life . . . moment by moment.
