Five Years Old

My love,

When you were one day old, I held you in my arms for the first time. I stared at your bald little head and cradled your tiny body. I held you until my arms ached and I was too tired to keep my eyes open. I held you until my head drooped and, with your body resting with the most delicious weight on my chest, I dozed.

When you were one week old, we brought you home. We carried you into the house, a treasure beyond belief. We glanced over our shoulders, convinced the NICU nurses were going to realize that we weren't ready for this thing called parenthood. We made our way past the blue balloons and into a room filled with family.

When you were one month old, I cried. I wanted my mom. I wanted her to take care of you because she knew how and I felt so inept. For her, you were quiet. For me, you screamed. For her, you ate. For me, you refused. I sat on the couch and let the tears fall, sobbing alone in the living room while Maggie Dog paced. I cried. You cried. We all cried until Daddy came home, took one look at us and picked you up, telling you that you should use your words. You laughed at him. I cried harder. And then, I went to sleep. For the first time in a month.

When you were one year old, I looked back and couldn't believe how my baby had grown. You crawled through the house chasing after us. You talked, you giggled, you laughed, you camped, you gardened and you still snuggled in my arms before falling asleep each night.

When you were two years old, we ate lunch at Subway. The memory is frozen in my mind. An everyday moment, made more poignant by the realization that you were a little boy. You sat on one side of the booth, alone, kicking your legs, talking and eating a sandwich. I didn't have to cut up your food. I didn't have to hold your cup. I didn't have to buckle you into a booster. You simply sat in your camo jacket and hat, eating a turkey sandwich, talking a mile a minute.

When you were three, we added Elizabeth to our family. I've never been so proud as I was when you kissed her tiny head, looked up at me and said, in the sweetest voice, "She's my baby." You're such an amazing big brother. You're patient and kind, loving and sweet. She follows you around as if you were her hero. And maybe you are. She can't get enough of your hugs and kisses. And you, sweet boy, are sure to give them to her. Even if you do so with a sigh and a roll of your eyes.

When you were four, I had another Subway moment. But this time, it was even more common. We were sitting at the table "chit chatting" when I said something off the cuff. You looked at me and replied, "Duh, Mama. Didn't you know that?" Such a teenage thing to say, it clenched my heart. You continued to amaze me daily. From complimenting my cooking and telling me I should put the recipe on "Mandyland" to showing both your dad and I how to work our iPhones. I can't believe that the wee baby I held in my arms is this sturdy little boy.

And now? You're five. Five years old. A milestone. Next fall, you'll start kindergarten. You'll have new friends, new influences, new interests. I'm so very frightened. It's a new phase, one of many, that will end with you graduating high school and leaving us.

So I hug you a little tighter. Kiss you a little more often. Rub your back until you fall asleep. I lay next to you, pulling your body close to mine and remember, as your feet kick my shins and your breath drifts across my face, a time when your body fit in the spot just beneath my heart.