“Happy Birthday,” I bellow. He smiles sheepishly, shimmering with pleasure.
“Actually, Ms. M, “my mom says I’m not really nine until after noon. She says I was born in the afternoon.” He squeals with the delight of a birthday that spans more than a morning.
…fast forward to lunch…
N and I run into each other by the microwave. “N!” I holler, “Happy Birthday! You are finally nine years old.”
“I am?” he questions. “Is it after noon?”
Note to self: plan mini-lesson on the concept of noon
“Yes. It is after noon. You are NINE years old.” N glimmers.
…fast forward to next morning…
In the hallway N is hanging up his coat, when I emerge from the classroom. “Hey N! Did you have a nice birthday?” He nods his head enthusiastically. “Do you feel any older? Any taller, smarter? Does it feel different being nine?”
“Nah,” he says, shrugging off my exuberance.
“Let me get a good look at you,” I say, taking a step back. My eyes look from his head to his toes. I rub my chin in contemplation. “Yep!” I declare. “You are definetely taller.”
“Really?” The question pops out of his disbelief, and his spine extends.
“Oh yes,” I marvel. “You absolutely look more nine than yesterday.”