Ten is many things. It is a perfect score, what most amps go to, and Bo Derek with sand on her feet. Ten is the gallons in a hat, all the pins down, and the part of the countdown where we all jump in. It was a pretty good album from Pearl Jam.
It seems, at least to me, that Ten should be content with itself. But it is not. Ten is always looking for new opportunities and acquisitions. Ten is a greedy son of a bitch, and frankly I am sick of it.
This week my oldest son will turn 10-years-old, and that hardly seems fair.
The thing is, he’s been not Ten for his entire life, and now, out of the blue, it’s suddenly okay? I don’t think so.
Ten is for big kids, and people with double-digits in their age bracket. Ten is not for little boys that still want to be carried to bed and hold their daddy’s hand in public.
I find myself feeling very much like Pooh Bear, watching a child grow to the point where milestones and melancholy have become increasingly blurry, and wondering, how long our days of fluff and honey?
That is not to say I want to hold him back. He is growing into a wonderful person—the pains of which are so much sweeter than the TV show. I am proud of my son, and I tell him often.
But these are the days where stories are written and memories made, and while there are thick, blank pages between him and the final bookend of his childhood, it is thicker still to the one from which he started.
It’s getting out of hand, really.
It isn’t like I didn’t see it coming. All of the warning signs were there. Most recently was Nine, which should have been a total giveaway, but I ignored it all with the bliss of my ignorance and an hourglass full of shells and beaches.
Ten is a decade, a Letterman list, and a bunch of rules etched in stone. Ten is many things, but none quite as wonderful as my little birthday boy.
Treat him well, Ten. I’m watching you.