Simon turned six on Boxing Day. With some kids, their birthdays seem like a relief— their chronological age finally agreeing with their precocious little spirits. Simon is not one of those kids. He’s one of those Peter Pan children, one of those precious souls who is so sweet and sparkly and creative that a little piece of me mourns every time he ages up for fear that this will be the magic number that robs us of all that is uniquely him.
So far, I have been delighted to be wrong. Simon at five was every bit the gleeful adventurer, the all-in pretender, the painter of images real and imagined that he allowed us all to step into from time to time.
His birthday was an especially joyful affair. Of all of the people in the world to have a birthday smack dab after what is arguably the biggest holiday of both the secular and religious calendar, it is Simon. He is decidedly unfazed by the pomp and circumstance that steals just a little bit of his countdown thunder, and genuinely doesn’t mind that his streamers and balloons are add-ons to the wreaths and greenery and candles that mark the season.
He is, as always, more than happy to grab on to the positive and run with it.
Simon is six now, an age that’s often a turning point in the slow maturation of a child. He’s growing up. There’s no doubt. But he’s also still, thankfully, very little. He’s still Simon. And for that, I am very grateful indeed.