I’ve been putting off writing this one because it feels like the last few pages in a chapter of my life I’m not ready to finish. I am no longer the mom of small kids. You are officially “big.” You head out the door at 8 a.m. and I don’t see you again until nearly 4 p.m. You have thoughts and feelings (so very many feelings) and a voice and a whole little life that I’m not 100 percent part of anymore. Yet as sad as that makes me, it’s brought me immense joy to watch you become this new person, this caring, kind, occasionally stubborn, always entertaining, funny little man.
Because let me tell you, son—you are funny. Not “look at that dumb kid doing some dumb thing” funny. You have timing. You have material. You know how to work a room. Some of the faces you pull have earned you the nickname Jim Carrey because he’s the only other person on the planet capable of contorting his features the way you can.
Alrighty then.
You perform for us at home regularly, often pausing a movie so you can show us your own interpretation of the scene we’ve just watched. While your family is surely your favorite audience, you don’t shy away from bigger crowds. Case in point, you were once again the unplanned focal point of your annual school Christmas concert.
The impromptu choreo at the fifteen-second mark made my entire holiday season.
You also took in your first stage performance this year at the high school’s production of Beauty and the Beast. After the show, we went on stage to take photos with the cast. You took one look out into the busting auditorium and I saw a light flicker behind your eyes as if a new part of your brain just woke up and said, “Oh, this is something you can actually do out in the world?” I’m excited to see how brightly you let that light shine.
Practicing for the part you were born to play.
I’ve also watched you grow into an enthusiastic little student this year as you learn to read and write in kindergarten. You like books (Scaredy Squirrel and Mercy Watson are current favorites), you like your buds in your class and you really like your teacher, Mrs. Wahl. You don’t love waking up early and you keep a running countdown of how many days of school you have left each week, but I think deep down, you’re OK with this kindergarten business.
Among the things I’m certain you love are Mario Bros. (the theme of your Halloween costume, birthday party and general day-to-day life this year) and Lion King (still—due in large part to the eBay-ed ‘90s era toys daddy bought you after years of other random toys serving as fill-ins for the real deal. Bullseye simply couldn’t hack it as Mufasa any longer). Your love for your sister remains strong, though whether you opt to express it or, say, yell at her for uttering even one syllable in your general direction depends on both your moods. I also believe you briefly fell in love with a mermaid during our first trip to the Renaissance Festival this year.
I spent $20 in one-dollar tips so you could visit her 20 times that day.
I love that you aren't yet shy about expressing your affection for me. You still cuddle with me. You always compliment me when I fix my hair or wear a new dress. When I came to read to your class for your birthday, you interrupted me every other page to tell me how much you love me. I felt like it was my birthday. I can’t wait to see what all the days to come hold for you, my sweet little man.
Love always,
Mummy
