Snapshots

 Twenty-seven is a kind of nowhere birthday. 

Not that this will stop us all from celebrating my son's most recent trip around the sun. We gathered this past Sunday, coincidental to Mothers Day since so much of that event had an essential bearing on the whole birthday thing. There was a cake. There were presents. 

Then he went home.

To his house. 

But it wasn't always that way. We used to get up early and stay up late. I came home from my work as my first year as a teacher was winding down just in time for putting together his green riding tractor. There was a room full of the kids from across the street, all of whom were older and ready to have a hand in the care and feeding of our one-year-old. And have some cake and ice cream. 

Subsequent years had a similar theme. The cakes became more elaborate, and the wheels became more complex. The guest list changed as he grew. Eventually he started having a say about who was invited. Then one day it was announced that he would be going out. Thanks for the cake. And the presents. But I'm going to meet some friends. By this time the wheels had become motorized, and the addition of a driver's license expanded his world. 

And shrank mom and dad's. Just a little. Now don't think that there's a trace of bitterness in this. I fully understand. Birthdays with your parents tend to skew almost immediately into "remember when" territory. Just like I am doing right now. But since the whole goal of raising a kid is to have them grow up, this development shouldn't come as any sort of surprise. 

Yet I can't help but remembering my son's life as a series of snapshots. Age five. Age ten. A series of cakes that continued to press the bounds of creating with sugar and eggs and flour. The bikes. The Legos. The parties in the back yard. 

But my son's life no longer fits in our back yard, much to his parents' chagrin. We raised a clever young man who has a world to whom he needs to be introduced. If you see him, tell him we said Happy Birthday. He's really quite a guy.