Now you are five: Birthday letter

Matey MOO. Now you are five!

I’ve taken so many photos of you sleeping lately. Mostly because it’s the only time you’re still, and I can just look at your face. Because you are the boss of your own body (as you tell us frequently and gleefully) you’ve just had lightning bolts shaved into your hair ‘to make you run faster.’ I preferred a traditional choirboy side part, but you are not especially interested in what anyone else thinks. The lightning bolts have zapped out the last vestiges of baby-ness from your face and you’ve stretched out this year, too. Your heels almost knock against my knees if I carry you on my hip, but I can’t carry you very often, anymore. You’re just too big. I understand that you’ll be furious about this, indefinitely.

Your fury is one of the cutest things I’ve ever seen. Which is lucky, because I see it a lot. Hell hath no fury like a child denied their every pleasure. We do a bit of denying, because you’re a tiny hedonist. You have the air of a little lord, expecting the world to accommodate your every whim. We’re working on that, but in some ways it’s a good thing. I like that you ask for what you want from the world. I like that you make your position clear. I like that you believe you deserve your share of the riches that exist. I hope you keep feeling like this – not entitled, but deserving of goodness.

You are very funny at the moment, too. You and your Daddy share a love for silliness and absurdity, and you’re both ready to have fun and be delighted as soon as you clap eyes on each other. It’s lovely. When you’re not being a little lord, you’re the court jester, capering for our amusement. You literally do caper, too - singing and dancing and ranting nonsense, especially when you’re in a room with good acoustics, like the toilet.

A couple of days ago, we went to the library. You love books and take a big stack to bed with you every night. I’d like to see someone try and tell you you’re not actually reading. When we’d finished at the library, you asked to go to the adjoining park.

‘Okay, but you have to wear a hat,’ I said. The only hat we had in the car was what I believed to be an inoffensive green bucket hat.

You frowned at it. ‘No.’

‘No? You don’t want to wear the hat? Then we can’t go to the park. We’ll have to get in the car and leave.’ Hilariously, I believed I was calling your bluff. You opened the door and climbed into your seat.

‘Let’s go.’

Your stubbornness is breathtaking. Your imagination is, too. Yesterday, on the way home, you told me you were now planning to be both a police officer and the driver of a truck that transported coal when you grew up. Simultaneously. I didn’t have the energy for a climate change discussion, so I just said, ‘Wow, you’re going to be so busy.’

‘Yes,’ you said seriously. ‘It will be very squashy.’

My sweet boy. You’re right, time can be squashy when you are busy. My time with you feels like it’s gotten squashier and squashier, lately. I want it to stretch out again, long days together with nothing to do. I promise I’ll make sure we still get some of those days.

I promise that our lives will always have time for silliness.

I promise to love you in fury and in serenity, both.

Happy birthday, sweetheart. Mummy loves the shit out of you.

 

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