I love having a nine year old.

I am getting old. I am seriously middle aged. The women who are my age are putting their kids through college. Some of them are empty nesters. I am one of the lucky ones though, I have a nine year old.

Most of the people I work with, spend their time traveling, going on cruises and spending money. My life is a bit more colorful. I still have a child who tried to crawl in bed with me when the wind blows. She came in just last week and woke me from a dead sleep by yelling, “ I can’t sleep, I am totally serious!” I still get to read the Tales of Despereaux and Ramona the Pest as bedtime stories. I still buy tacky Valentine cards each February.

I get to answer questions like,” Why ain’t ain’t a word if people use it.” I get to laugh at knock knock jokes. I make pinkie promises and do knuckles when required. I still get to buy corn dogs and pop sickles. There is a constant noise in the background when she is home that I miss terribly during the day. I get to hear humming and singing and the voices of toys talking to each other.

I am still doing long division and multiplication tables after school. I get to go on field trips and go to orchestra and Christmas concerts. I have to help write talks for primary and am thrilled to get homemade bookmarks and Christmas tree ornaments. I have never regretted the choice I made to forgo a career to have six kids and stay home with them. I am so glad that one of them didn’t come until nine years ago, because I would be totally lost without a wonderful nine year old.