Bugs and Birthdays

My Bug is five (amusingly, his birthdate this year was 6/7/08), which is a strange concept. Well, every birthday is strange when you have kids--the kid is reflecting on cake and party stuff and the parents get to reflect on how the hell they got so big in such a small amount of time and whether or not anyone will make it to the next one in one piece.

This birthday marks the last year he's just mine. Come the fall, he'll have school and he'll make Not Playdate Friends and he'll come home wanting a dragon tattoo and Pokemon cards. This is probably the last year for many, many years that I am his best friend. Until he's a teenager and wants money or a ride somewhere, then I'm temporarily In The Club. Unless I say no.

We got up yesterday and he helped me make his birthday breakfast (a stunning assortment of eggs, Super French Toast and strawberries topped with whipped cream), then he helped me set up all of his party decorations (Spider-Man is goddamn everywhere). The decorations were particularly fun because this is the first year we've done an all-out themed birthday party and he's so very, very thrilled about it.

Then he went and grabbed my cell and stuffed it in his pocket.

"What's with the cell phone, Bug?"

"Everyone is going to call me to tell me Happy Birthday."

". . . yes, they will. But so far, it's eight in the morning. I'm not sure if everyone is up yet."

"Mom. It's my birthday. They'll get up early. I am five, you know."

Ten minutes later, the cell phone hasn't rung and I'm beginning to get a taste of what his expression is going to look like when he's a teenager and Not-Really-But-Totally-Waiting-For That Girl to call. I sneak into the bathroom with the other cell phone and call him myself.

". . . Mom?"

"Happy Birthday!"

". . . Mom, did you leave the house?"

"No, I'm in the bathroom."

". . . are you stuck?"

". . . no."

It was a very nice twenty minute conversation regarding his birthday and what a big dork he thought I was, after I convinced him I wasn't trapped somewhere in the house against my will (Note: We have seen Monster House too many times and he was, in fact, far too lazy to get off the couch to look for me himself).

He was laughing when he told me what I dork I was, so I think it was cooler than it was dorky.

Perhaps this is just a taste of Grown-Up Kid Lingo, where subtext is everything. It's okay, I'm Female, I've got insulation against the nasties of subtext.

He was bundles of adorable all day, talking non-stop about his party and stuff he wanted and when were we going to go pick up the cake (my Mom-Fu is weak in baking) and when was everyone going to get here and could he play Katamari and would it be okay if he peed in the backyard?

"Wait--what?"

"The world is my toilet, Mom, I have a penis."

"Who told you that?"

"Unc. He said that it was okay to pee in the wilderness. We did at the beach."

". . . well. Our backyard isn't the wilderness. And our bathroom isn't broken. You're peeing inside."

"Fiiiiiiiine."

Note to self: Discuss the finer points of Educating Children today with my little brother. Also, punch him hard enough to bruise.

I reflect on this: Five years ago I had no idea what the hell I was doing. Thanks to nanny experience, I had the roughs down, but really, I had No Damn Idea What The Hell I Was Doing. Five years later, I sort of know what I'm doing.

Okay, I still have no idea what I'm doing, but at least I made it five years with only five midnight hospital visits, ten coins swallowed, one 911 call, one Emergency Dentist Visit, one strange case of scarlet fever, three Walmart Theft incidents (bubblegum in the pocket) and three occasions involving projectile vomiting.

And he's only caught himself in the zipper once.

I think we're ahead of the game.