A child's birthday

I have yet (and hope to never) reach the point where I dread my birthday. I enjoy the extra pampering - the dish of her special eggplant parm that my mom makes for me every year and Rob's ever-innovative ways of spoiling me. But though I am oddly excited about reaching my 30th birthday next year, that excitement pales in comparison to celebrating my nephew's eight birthday this weekend.

My sister's oldest son, a child I read to in the womb and spent countless hours with during his first couple of years, when my greatest obligation was completing my college degree and all non-studying hours could be spent watching his face change from the tiny wrinkled face of infancy to the round, baby version of the face he has now, a face that has recently become long and narrow, like his body. It's a mature face that makes me think twice about slinging him around and blowing raspberries on his neck like I did when he was younger; I still do those things, but I wait for the day that he lets me know he has become too old...

In the meantime, we'll play hide-and-seek as we did before his party yesterday. I will continue to be amazed when he says things that bypass age-appropriateness by a long shot, and relieved when he says things that are distinctly eight-years-old in mentality. And I will try a little harder to not see his future when I look in his face: the endless possibilities for what his life could become and he along with it. I believe he will be successful wherever his path may lead, but we have decades to hash that out and only this one precious year to enjoy him at eight.