Five

I held your foot in my hand.  I was tucking you into bed, marveling at marvelous little you.  I stared at that long, soft, pink foot and shook my head.  It spanned my entire palm.  I clearly remember the days I could easily cradle it in my palm like a small stone.

You grinned up at me, that devilish little toothy grin, a small gap in your two front teeth thanks to thumb-sucking.  You swear you've stopped, but I know that late at night, as your drifting through dreamland, that tiny thumb drifts into your mouth.  And that's ok.

You turned five.  You are five.  Not a baby, but not a big boy.  You are my little man.  My trusty side-kick.  You are an opinionated sous-chef, a watcher of birds, the commander of Abigail Fluffypants, a demander of snuggles, a tattler of tales, a back-seat D.J.  

You are learning to name and deal with lots of big feelings.  Sadness comes out as anger.  Joy can result in energetic gesticulations, misunderstood as aggression.  Life is tough for a five year old.  But it is also full of beauty and wonder.  Thanks to you I have never walked so slowly or listened so carefully.  You slow me down in all the best ways.  

You and I spend a lot of time together, and I LOVE it.  Many mornings, after dad has dropped the older 3 off at school, you saunter down to the kitchen, and announce your presence with a "Hey mom!"  This is quickly followed by, "I haven't had my morning snuggles yet."  We cuddle on the sofa, attempting to spot some birds outside.  Most times, though, crazy Abby jumps on our stomachs and licks our faces until we are laughing and rolling off the couch.  We read, we play, we get ready for preschool, or junior kindergarten, to be exact.  We decided to gift you with one more year of childhood.  Why rush it?  You go to school 4 days a week for 3 hours a day, and that's plenty.  In case you couldn't tell, I love having you home with me.  

I love watching you grow into a little person.  You have ideas that are all your own.  You have amazing questions and observations.  I wish I were more diligent in recording all of them.  I suppose it is part and parcel of being the fourth child; fewer pictures are taken, fewer quotes recorded.  Though they may not be written on this blog, they are written on my heart.  The exact words are gone, but the essence is there.  I love you for all those special, inexplicable, unique things that make you who you are.  No one (save God and your daddy) could ever love you more.

I also love watching you play with your siblings.  Nothing in this world brings me more joy than hearing the four of you playing and laughing together.  Our family wouldn't be complete without you, sweet boy.

I often steal your Grammy's line and ask: "Do you know what I love about you?"  You oblige and ask, "What?"

"Everything."

So, happy fifth birthday, son [late, as usual, but that's just how this momma rolls].  Love you, baby boy!


Love, Momma

I remember

I remember a blog post I wrote years ago.  We were living in Kentucky then, too.  I remember writing about a morning I had to walk the kids into preschool, in sweat pants, shoulders hunched inside a big coat (to hide the fact I hadn't been able to don the proper undergarments thanks to having had to nurse a baby all night), hair unwashed, teeth unbrushed.  I was basically a hot mess.

I remember being baffled by the moms who calmly strolled into school, wearing actual outfits, no spit up on their shoulders, hair brushed, makeup on!  Who were these people??  And how were they possibly raising preschoolers?

Now I know.  Or perhaps it's more accurate to say, now I notice.  These put-together moms are only brining in preschoolers, and usually just one.  Probably the baby of the family.  Preschoolers are somewhat self-sufficient.  Even if these moms had elementary aged students, they would be up and off to school well before the preschooler needed attention in the morning.

Now I am the mom walking calmly into school.  Now I can wear clean clothes and brush my teeth.  Oh happy days!

And yet...

There is a sort of wistfulness in my heart when I pass those young mommas.  The ones slumped in their seats just after morning drop off.  The ones with the wiggly toddler in the booster seat and the sleeping baby in the bucket carseat in the back.  Those moms' mornings last forever.  In fact, their days last forever.  Then it all starts over again tomorrow.  There is no leisurely sleeping in on Saturday.  Babies never seem to get that memo.  No, these moms just completed one lap of their morning race that likely started at 5 a.m. and won't end until after a midnight feeding.

I used to worry that the moms who seemed to have it all together at preschool might somehow be judging me.  Now I know better.  Now I know that they remembered what it was like.  That they knew how badly I just wanted a nap, a bath, an adult conversation.  Oh mommas!  I see you, friends.  This, too, shall pass.

One day, just around the corner, you will hug your little boy and be able to rest your chin on his head at the same time.  You won't be able to pick him up, but you will still cradle him in your heart.  And all these exhausting, wonderful, maddening mornings will have been worth it.

One day you'll be able to cook dinner while watching your children play together in the back yard.  You'll even be able to join in before it's time to take the food out of the oven.  There will be peace at dinner.  No one will spill their drink.  For real.

Each season is just that.  A season.  A handful of moments, soon to pass.  I know it feels like that old Bill Murray movie Groundhog Day.  Every morning feels never-ending and all too familiar.   But please hear me when I say it will pass.  I know you have dishes in the sink, clothes souring in the washer, unmade beds, crumbs on the table.  I remember.  But what I hope is that you will take just a few moments to sit and hold that baby.  Marvel at those eye lashes, kiss those toes.  This, too, shall pass, all too quickly.