Nine. The number nine never held any significance for me, but as it turns out, it's a sneaky little number that I should have been watching for. I was walking along, down a long corridor, holding the hand of my little boy, blissfully unaware that something was lurking in the distance. Then, all of a sudden, the corridor ended and there was a doorway thrust before us, the number nine looming ominously large across the half-open door. Something didn't feel right about this doorway, so I clutched his hand a little tighter and turned to go back. We turned, but before we could take even one step, our feet stopped short even as a whoosh of air rose in our throats and we tried to pull back from falling over a ledge. The corridor was gone. The hallway we walked now invisible. The doorway was our only option.
As I looked at my little boy standing in the big doorway, he began to change. As though a fog were lifted from my eyes, I began to see him as he was. He was no longer the baby that I sang to, no longer the toddler who made silly faces and used a towel as his "magician's cape." He wasn't the little boy trying to figure out who Scooby Doo's villain would be or eating an apple despite a mouth full of missing teeth. He wasn't looking at me with wide eyes and animated expressions telling a story and he was no longer the boy mispronouncing words with a cuteness worthy of writing down every phrase in his keepsake book. He was big. He was a big kid...and just then I heard the faint strains of "Happy Birthday" coming from beyond the doorway.
My little boy was turning nine and all of a sudden, I knew. I knew that once he walked through that doorway there would be no coming back. Suddenly I wanted to grab him and wrap him in my arms and never let him go. I knew that beyond that doorway he would continue to grow, only this time he would be big, then bigger and bigger. He would soon be a teenager and then a man. When he stepped through that doorway, other voices would grow louder and mine more faint. He would think fewer and fewer silly things were funny. His joyful and willing acceptance would be tempered by the balance of independence. His choices would bear more weight and his decisions wouldn't necessarily include me.
It was just a doorway and yet, I knew. Letting him walk through that doorway was letting him go. I didn't see it coming and yet now, my heart beat out of my chest as surely as it would if someone had tried to grab him from my arms as an infant. Nine. It was halfway to eighteen. My little boy was halfway gone. And my heart was breaking in half.
Yes, I know, it was only halfway. I tried to tell myself there was still a lot of time left. But I knew the truth. The time that lay ahead would not be the same as the path we'd already walked. The days of him sitting on my lap were gone. The silly stories and squeals of delight were but a faint echo in my mind. The times I would be able to teach him new things, see the excitement in his eyes were becoming few. And the hugs, oh the hugs. How would I ever ever live without the sweet, all-consuming joy of those hugs?
So, I did what any mom in my position would do. I stood in that doorway and held him tight and refused to go in until time itself reached through and pulled us forward. And then, as he walked on excitedly and without hesitation, I sat. I sat on his bed, looked around his room and cried.
I saw the dresser that just "yesterday" I was telling him was still a bit big for him, so he shouldn't try to reach the top just yet. I saw the little plastic drawers that once held Happy Meal toys and view master reels. I saw the myriad of posters that had marked his transition from one age and interest to the next. I saw his closet where the shirts that used to hang from the top were small, yet now, overlapped the toys stacked below. And then I laid eyes on something else. There, on the wall, amidst the pictures of Sci-fi movies, super heroes and Lego creations was one of the original decorations I'd hung up for him in his baby nursery. My sweet boy, through all the changes, through all the maturing and learning and growing up, still found it comforting to have something Mama made at the start of his journey, reminding him that he was on safe footing as he pressed on.
That one image made my heart swell and at the same time, shatter into a million pieces. How much longer would that decoration hang there? How long til it no longer brought him comfort, but embarrassment or awkwardness? Somehow the number nine suddenly felt like a thief. Oh, it wasn't one that came in and grabbed things. It sneaked them out slowly, one by one, so that I wouldn't notice. But now, I knew the thief was in the house and I was powerless to stop it. So, I cried. And cried. And cried some more.
Halfway to eighteen. Halfway gone. The days ahead may be joyful, but they would never be the same. My little boy was gone already. Where tiny arms once reached up for me, a big kid stood in his place. And though he looked a bit familiar, as I studied him I realized he was turning into someone I didn't know. And it scared me.
Where had my little boy gone? How could the years be over so soon? When you get pregnant, you think you have eighteen years to raise them, but nobody tells you about nine. Nine is the doorway. The cute, cuddly, little years are behind and all that awaits is the unknown. Nine comes fast, a thief, a ninja, a black shadow. There was no noise, no warning. Even my motherly instincts and intuition failed me. Nine is a bully and suddenly, I remembered what it was like to feel very small.
Nine. It was going to take some getting used to. The road ahead would be filled with fear, digging in my heels and trying to slow down time even as pain ripped through me. Bedtime snuggles would be replaced with battle scars. I would daily fight for balance between giving him strong, solid wings and wanting to build a bigger nest to keep him just a bit longer.
And yet now, even as I write this, the nest has grown smaller, my fortitude weaker. Another birthday is on the horizon and an even bigger enemy shadows over me. Though my own life may go on for many more years, I feel like my time here is short. It's a strange, scary bridge that I'm crossing, but there is a drop off below so all I can do is put one foot in front of the other and hope, just hope that there is something worth reaching on the other side.
