nine. 9. number nine.

When you wake up as a nine-year-old and your name is London Elizabeth Scout this is what you do …..

You wake up to your special requests coming true. Fruity Pebbles and the Sunday comics in bed. (Yep. Fruity Pebbles. Gasp!)

You are allowed to open your presents before your cake. (You should know that agreeing to this decision was strongly influenced by Daddy. Mommy prefers the long wait and the building up of anticipation.)

Now you have your hiking backpack for our future adventures.

You get to choose our day’s activity.

A day at our local water park. (How convenient that the library gave away tickets for the water park as part of the summer reading program!).

You get to pick any dinner you want – and we all celebrate that it’s tacos!

You get to join Daddy, our resident cake decorator, in the time-honored tradition of planning and decorating the birthday cake.

This year’s theme? A pool populated by Lego people.

Ah, London.

The passage of time that allows you to be nine is breath-takingly rapid. My heart hurts at the reality of it.

When we named you Scout, this is the age I was imagining. This age. This one right now.

And then, those nine years ago, this age seemed impossibly far away. A distant land from miniature diapers and two a.m. nursings.

Yet here we are.

I whispered and sang to your tiny little seven pound self resting in my arms in a hospital room in Virginia on the eve of my thirtieth birthday.

And that day, you were all gift to me.

All gift.

And you still are.