One more sleep…

…and I’ll have a nine-year-old boy. I find that hard to believe. Somebody’s pulling a practical joke, or else it’s all been a dream, à la Newhart, and I’m about to wake up next to a nursling. “Honey, you won’t believe the dream I just had. Now, can you burp this baby for me, so I can go get a drink of water?”

Or not. Perhaps it’s a little too vivid, if surreal.

He’s having a swimming party this year, and going along with our track record of fearing the unknown when it comes to planning birthday parties (you just don’t know what the weather will do around here), we booked an indoor hotel pool for it. Not too pricey, considering that it includes a party room for cake and gifts. Considering Gabe’s strong feelings about outdoor insects, also, it seemed prudent to plan for climate control. Interestingly, we’ve already far exceeded our usual rate of RSVPing this year (love not knowing if more than one or two guests are coming three days out from the party…); perhaps it’s the allure of the pool, or perhaps it’s a fluke, but I’ll take it.

But that’s not for a bit (the party is well after his actual birthday, due to scheduling stuff). I can’t wait to see his face when he discovers what we’re doing this weekend to celebrate his actual birthday… I anticipate much happy screaming on his part, as well as on his brother’s.

Just think: nine years ago, I was reaching the end of my rope, wondering if I’d ever have this child who was stubbornly refusing to make his downstage exit. Now…