To my beloved older son,
You turned five the other day. This happens all the time, all over the world, but this was special because you are my child.
Five is Christopher Robin and his friend Pooh Bear, endless adventures in the woods and your imagination. It’s telling stories of talking animals who have their own thoughts, opinions, and complex communities. It’s Bunnyland and Bear’s store and you telling me stories as much as me telling you them.
Five is telling terrible jokes with nonsensical punchlines. It’s trying to be funny and failing and not trying and being hysterical. And every once in a while coming up with a genuinely good joke.
Five is being surprisingly insightful and staggeringly annoying, all in the span of a few minutes. It’s talking nonsense and asking questions that make me stop and think. It’s challenging what I say and sometimes making some really good points.
Five is melting down but also demonstrating maturity. It’s handling the fact that we missed one day of camping due to thunderstorms with grace. It’s also crying about not going to the park immediately after coming back from camping. It’s ignoring my directions and cheering “mommy is the best!” when I get home from work.
Five is learning how to be a bad influence on your little brother and loving him more than I could imagine. It’s telling him to do things we told him literally the minute before not to. It’s getting things down for him that we purposely put out of his reach. It’s also tight hugs and goodnight kisses and giggles as you’re wrestling on the couch with him. It’s encouraging to speak – even if it’s all discussion of poop.
Five is yelling, “Watch this Mama!” and then doing acrobatics on the playground that make me grit my teeth. It’s me breathing deep when you do things that seem riskier than they are and just as risky as they seem to be. It’s you imitating the older kids on the playground – and them wanting to play with you.
Five is kindergarten. It’s being gone from us for the full day. It’s getting on the bus, going to the “big kids’ school,” and classes that aren’t “play-based.” It’s us worrying about teachers and social skills and services. It’s the opportunity to watch you flourish.
Five is going from being a little kid to just a kid. It’s a transition, an in-between time that’s both/and.
Five is everything. You are five and that is wonderful.
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