Nine. The last of the single digits. Amongst all the dorkiness that comes with being a nine year old boy (ie: wiping dirty hands directly on anything other than a napkin and taking up more physical space than a herd of elephants) I love finding him in his quiet moments. Fittingly we ushered in nine in the quietness of a quaint French village. His big birthday present had been going to a football game in Spain. So the birth day we spent going to a nearby town (with the visiting grandparents) to poke around and get a birthday cake. It was pouring rain so the poking around was made difficult.
