Pluto is a Planet. So Say I.

I won’t accept it. I don’t care what the scientists say.

They’re wrong. There is no other way to explain it.

Pluto is a planet.

There were nine planets the day I was born. There were nine planets the day I learned to talk. There were nine planets when I started kindergarten.

There were nine planets when I entered the third grade. I know because Miss Martin made us memorize all the planets for our third grade science test.

Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Neptune, Uranus, Pluto.

I got an A. That’s because I knew there were nine planets, including Pluto.

And it didn't stop there.

There were nine planets when I graduated from high school. There were nine planets the day I got married. There were nine planets the day Eric was born.

There have always been nine planets. It’s a fact of life as certain as the sun rising in the east. It's a fact of life as certain as the earth revolving around the sun.

Fact. Not opinion. Cold hard fact.

Now I hear some egg head sitting around with his head up his asteroid is downgrading Pluto. He's saying I've been wrong all these years. After all this time, he is going to change the rules.

No way.

I reject it.

I’m not a big fan of change; especially when it has the potential to impact the results of a game of Trivial Pursuit or my third grade GPA. As far as I’m concerned, everything from the day I was born needs to stay exactly as it always has been. I’m more comfortable that way.

Well, except the seasons. Seasons can change. I'll authorize four. No more, no less.

And the tides of the ocean. Tides can change. I’ll permit two. High and low. But I draw the line there.

What shouldn’t change are my babies.

They keep growing up on me when I’m not looking. Every night when I put my children to bed, I tuck them in and whisper in their ears “Stay small.” But somehow, during the night when I am not looking, they grow up.

I’m starting to run out of babies. Eric isn’t a baby anymore. He’s seven going on thirty. He thinks he knows everything. Maybe he does. I sure don't.

Emily isn’t a baby. She’s four. But she wants to do everything her brother does. Like ride her bike fast and skateboard. She doesn’t care that she’s too young. She does it anyway.

Beth is definitely not a baby. She's two. If you say “Oh my little baby” she’ll correct you. “I’m not a baby. I’m a big girl.”

She is. She is a big girl.

Sigh.

No matter what I do, they keep growing up and changing. Soon they will be teenagers, borrowing the car and staying out late.

Then they won’t want to play "Chutes and Ladders." They won't want to read “Five Little Monkeys.” They won't let me sing the "Bumble Bee" song to them.

That’s why I’m not giving in on Pluto. It was a planet for 76 years and gosh darn it; I intend to keep it that way.

P.S. Why did we name a planet after Mickey's dog?