My little man is now six years old! We celebrated Jedi-style at a local inflatables arena, and had a severe blast. The entire afternoon could pretty much be summed up with this:
Almost two hours of this (kids and grown-ups alike) is definitely the way to celebrate. All of Bug’s grandparents were able to come up for the party, and almost all of our guest list came out in full bouncy force. We are so blessed to be surrounded with friends and family who love Bug, and, additionally, love to jump on things that are large and squishy and full of air. (And no, I’m not referring to my husband.) (Zing!)
Six years old, and for the first time in his little life, I’ve had the dreaded, “What?! Six years old?! How did this happen?” mom-phase. It didn’t happen with one, or two, or five; it didn’t happen when he started kindergarten (at least not to this degree), but it knocked me down for the count when my sweet baby boy turned six. Six! He is now on the other side to ten! (The double digits!) Impossible.
After metaphorically (or literally, same difference) breathing heavily into a brown paper bag, I came to this conclusion: I think it has to do with the idea that my delightful six-year-old isn’t just my son anymore, but my daughter’s older brother. He has taken on a new role, a significant role, a life-changing and identifying role that weighs heavily on someone smaller and more fragile than me. And quite frankly, he is doing a mighty fine job of it.