Friday, July 12, 2013


Birthday letter - age 5

My Beloved Son, 
You are FIVE!!! FIVE!!! I'm repeating myself with the hope that repetition will help me wrap my mind around the fact that I am the mother of a five year old. I am the mother of a boy who asks me how to make a website, makes strawberry pancakes with his papa, and has learned to roll his eyes when I get on his nerves. 

You bear almost no resemblance to the cherub that I wrote last birthday. Miss Kris cut your hair to look like papa's and you have a wiggly from tooth. You have great friends, teachers who adore you and whom you also love. You're beginning to read and you like simple math. Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood has enchanted you of late; you sing all the time; and you love acting!! (Ms. Jessie was right)! A couple weeks ago, you ordered me outside, where I sat on a tree root and watched you give a 20 minute concert of science songs. Now you're getting into legit musical theater and you give an adorable rendition of "Where Is Love?" from Oliver, and "Little People," from Les Mis. Tonight, you sang with particular gusto and your words rang clear as crystal... "cause little people grow!" Indeed.

The fact that I am reeling hasn't phased you a bit. I am struggling to accept that you are FIVE, but you are not! You tell anyone who will listen! And to add to my astonishment, you're quick to add that soon you will be six!!! Wow. When you told one of your teachers today, she answered "Really? That was fast!" No kidding. That's what my chattery mind has been saying since I realized you were almost five. Now, almost six? Yes, to me you almost are; and she's right. That was fast!

This journey has felt very short to me, but looking back I see how far we'be come. When I wrote your 3 year old letter, the road ahead felt easy. When I wrote your 4 year old letter it terrified me. From where I sit today (next to you, as you watch PBS Kids and we share pizza; you burp and I remind you to say "excuse me"), it feels... dare I say it? Normal. 

Normal doesn't look for us exactly like it does for other families. Then again, I think "normal" is a pretty subjective term. But we've found a rhythm. This rhythm works for us, for now. But our rhythm is also changing. It's almost time for you to start kindergarten, and there isn't any option here that seems quite right. So, we've taken the early steps and are about to take a huge leap as a family. We're moving in July to Colorado Springs. We'll leave behind almost everything familiar, taking only our belongings and each other. 

I've pondered for several months now what prayer I would offer you today, and my once somewhat selfless prayer has taken on a slightly selfish tone. This year I pray that you will embrace the adventures that are on the way for all of us: that you will brave that which frightens you, tackle that which challenges you, revel in that which delights you, and that for just a little while more, that you will let me hold you. Your childhood is escaping me; and as I rejoice in your daily achievements and joys, I realize more intensely with each moment that the reason it is escaping me is that it isn't mine.

This should come as no shock to me. Not so long ago (it seems, to me), I wrote "I know better than to think we can possibly know all that much about your personality when you are only 13 days old, but some things are appearing that are not what the books predicted, and which I think are really your own. ...Even now, we can see that you are both a product of your parents and a uniquely new being. We’ll continue to try to be aware of the differences between the emerging you and our projections onto you as you grow up, because ultimately the little light inside of you is what we want to shine. We are stunned again and again that you chose our family to be a part of; and we feel so blessed." I stand by those words and am grateful that you keep me ever aware of the fact that while you are a product of your parents, you remain uniquely your own. 

So, here's to you, five year old boy.


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