He's so fine, and now he's 9

Dear M,

I know I say some version of this every year, and our family kids you about it regularly, but you will always, always be "Baby M."

"Baby M is in third grade."
"Baby M is going to his senior prom."
"Baby M is going to be a grandpa."
"Baby M is in the nursing home."

It's not just me who thinks of you as our little one.

G walks past your classroom when I sub at the school to make sure you get to the office to meet me.
N picks you up and babies you in a way that she doesn't with G.
We giggle like crazy whenever we see you do your Fortnite dances and beg you to do them again and again because it's so cute to see your little butt wiggle.

It is hard to believe that you are turning 9...your last year of single digits.

In the future, when I think about you turning 9-years-old,
I want to remember your shaggy hair,
especially the curls I play with when you're lying in bed after lights out,
and how you STILL twiddle my ears when you're tired or want comfort,
and that you are still sorta in a phase of going commando because underwear doesn't feel right.

I want to remember how you called the new essential oil diffuser a "Smellerator,"
which sounds like something Doctor Doofenschmirtz would say.
And how you are always the disc jockey in the car whenever we go somewhere.

I want to remember how thankful I am that you are such a mellow kid most of the time and create a nice sandwich to N and G.

I want to remember how you jabber so fast that Daddy and I can't understand you, but you manage to work in adult-sounding words or phrases that just sound so funny in your squeaky voice.

I love you sweet bonus baby boy,

Momma