Bonne anniversaire, Jack

I apparently am the mother of an eight-year-old boy.

I have no idea how this happened. Wasn't it just yesterday that we met him, that blue-eyed, golden-haired boy (whom my Norwegian grandmother was so pleased to see looking so Norse)? Wasn't it just yesterday he was learning to walk, the morning of John's graduation from his PhD program at Penn? That he was learning to talk, using grammatically correct sentence structure from the start (pleasing his grammar-loving mother to no end)? That he loved trains? And blocks? And baking with me? That he went off to kindergarten at his French immersion school, with one last reassurance that none of the other kids would know what the teacher was saying either? That he learned to ride a bike on two wheels, and lost a tooth (and then seven more)? That we discovered he attracted friends like  honey attracts bears, with boys and girls of all ages calling him their best friend? That he bravely went to school in Japan, and then did it all again in France?

How does time pass so quickly? The moments when he was sick, or worried, or sad, or mad... those moments weren't quick. And yet the last eight years flew by. How does that happen?

If you figure it out, let me know.

In less sentimental news -- the birthday boy had a great day. Olivia woke us all up at 5:50 a.m. shouting "It's Jack's birthday, wake up! Wake up!" So she, John, and Jack got up, while Katie and I caught a few extra winks. By 7 a.m., we were all up and he was opening the presents from his sisters. At noon, we walked to town for lunch at The Almonry, in the crypt near the cathedral. It's been a day of playing, and gateau au chocolat, and laughter, and amazement... because there is an eight-year-old in the house.

And he thinks eight will be great.