Ro turned 9 this Monday. He is growing up at a pace that I do not know how to keep pace with anymore. Despite the Ben 10s and the other competing contraptions, he retains some endearing innocence that I know for sure wouldn’t last till next year. He still rushes to hug me when I return home, even when he is in the midst of his friends at the playground. If he is home before me, he insists on opening the door, instinctively knowing who’s at the door. He never flinches when I call him my little baby in public. One of my neighbours always says how lucky I am to have such a loving child. Of course, she doesn’t know of our skirmish and I-will-NEVER-talk-to-yous. But he is a gentle child, probably one of the reasons most girls are friends with him but not all the boys. He doesn’t get into fights and has learnt the art of fixing boys older to him with a stare, which is commendable at his age. I had wished for him to be more aggressive when I mistook his easygoing adaptive nature for passivity. But as he grows, I notice the distinct streak of latent stubbornness that’s a sure sign of a mind all of its own. He has opted for cookery for his hobby class in school this year. My father, being from the generation that he is, looked at him in disbelief when he announced his choice. My mother smiled and was secretly pleased. Last year he had taken yoga, again out of his own volition. To my father all this is very alien and he wonders why on earth his grandson chooses cookery over a science club. Though seeing my mother’s enthusiasm, he keeps his ‘wonderment’ to himself. Finally, I heard him telling Ma yesterday, that he regrets never having learnt how to cook himself. To which my mother, being my mother, tells him it’s never too late.