My first born son is about to turn 10.  I still can't believe it.  I'm having a hard time with this birthday for some reason.  I laughed when my best friend struggled with her son's first birthday.  I laughed when another friend struggled with her daughter turning 13.  I laughed when yet another friend shipped her son off to college.  I laughed at my friends (lovingly of course) when they had a hard time accepting the fact  that time marches unrelentingly on, and our children eventually get older. 

Now I'm getting choked up about a decade of childhood that is coming to a close.  I couldn't wait for him to reach the past nine birthdays... what is it about this one that is so hard.  I'm I just getting soft?  Although I'm sure there's a smidgen of truth in that, I don't think that's the main reason.  I think there are a myriad of things happening all at once that contribute to this melancholy. 

I can remember my 10th birthday.  I remember telling the guy at Chuck E. Cheeses that I was a decade old.  I had just learned what a decade was, and I was so happy to be able to boast my newfound knowledge (a trait that apparently doesn't diminish with age).  I remember realizing at that little party, that I was getting too big to really enjoy Chuck E. Cheeses the way I had in the past.  I was getting too big for most of the rides, and I wasn't really interested in the arcade games.  I ended up using most of my tokens on skee-ball, and buying some rinky-dink toys with my tickets. 

Another thing to note is that I'm noticing some changes in my son's outlook on life.  Over the past year he has all but stopped asking to play outside and his attention has shifted to video games and TV shows.  He used to beg to play outside for hours and now I have to force him out the door to play with the dog. 

On a lighter note, there are some milestones that I have long awaited that are coming to pass.  He's starting to be more interested in his appearance.  Although the desire to be comfortable still outweighs the desire to look good.  Still, there are little snippets of awareness that I see in him.  He's stopped making the little boy groans of disgust at displays of affection.  He has commented on things he's seen as being cute or pretty, whereas a year ago those words were forcefully ejected from his vocabulary.  Besides being responsible for his own fingernail clipping, the other day he asked me for a comb so he could fix his hair (not that I let it get long enough to need much attention).  And finally, the last time I took him for a haircut he wanted some say in how it looked. 

I guess part of it is an underlying fear of parenting a teenager, and although I know I still have a few years before that happens, I'm still wary of the struggles that will entail.  I'm afraid all my shushing him will result in a breakdown of communication.  I'm afraid that his "satiable curiosity" will land him in a mess.  I'm afraid of every pitfall every teenager has ever fallen into manifesting in my son's life.

If I were to put my finger on the crux of the matter.  I think it boils down to the fact that I truly love him and although I never thought I'd feel this way, I don't want my only boy to leave me.  I feel like I'm passing the halfway point in his childhood and from this point on it's a swift countdown to the day he leaves.  Somehow that day is easier to stomach when it seems farther in the distance.

Don't get me wrong... I'm very happy for him.  I'm excited that he gets to celebrate another milestone.  I just wish I didn't feel so sad about it this time around.