When a 5 feels like an 8 or 9.
Dear Augustine,
Happy Birthday. caveat*
*Today is actually the day after your birthday. Maybe this is setting us up for belated birthday presents when you have moved out on your own. You should probably expect that because my parents (your grandparents) have a pretty long history of getting packages delivered the day after my birthday, and I have to believe that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. (case in point, your Aunt Jenn’s card arrived today) This doesn’t mean that they or I are not excited about your celebration – it just means that it’s hard to find just the right present…or in this case – just the right words. Most of the time, its the urgency of the last second choice that makes the right choice appear.
Like this. See…
I didn’t know how I was going to feel about your turning 5, not until last night – right about the time your birthday was closing up. Right there at the end, all the stuff inside congealed into a solid though – and it was thick, I’m basically wallowing in a stew of it today.
I mean, I should have had an idea what was coming…There were signs that I was subconsciously aware that we were approaching a milestone.
- In the few days leading up to your birthday – I got confused if you were turning 4 or 5.
- After months of calling you ‘kid’, I caught myself several times saying ‘baby’.
- Watching Inside/Out on the eve of your birthday was a painfully emotional experience – which my body tried to shut out by putting me to sleep. I swear I wasn’t tired before Goofball Island fell apart.
It turns out, in my bones I think 5 is a really big year. I mean, YOU’RE 5.
At 5, you’re definately not a toddler or preschooler anymore. At 5, you’re nearly 6 – and 6 is a full blown kid. So, now – at 5 – I have realized that you are in fact not a/our/my baby anymore. You’re not, you never will be again.
It’s so weird to know so concretely that – having silently evaporated into the oppressively humid Florida air – your baby presence is gone from our house. For something that is just a few days apart, there’s a tangible shift to the feeling in the house. For me, there’s an empty space in my chest where ‘my baby’ once was and it’s slowing being crushed by ‘my kid’ (slowly like a blood pressure cuff).
Augustine – You aren’t forming, now you are (as Seuss says) on your way.
When you were 4, I thought about how that was the year when you’re probably going to have your first memory. At 5, we’re working on building blocks. The choices that your mom and I made have and are shaping you – we can’t reset stuff and try from the beginning anymore.
(Until you were three and partially into 4, I always kind of held the idea that whatever accidental bad we’re doing can be reset – babies are so flexible. Now though, there are parts of you that are shaped, like kinking a pipe cleaner – there are curves and angels that will never let the thing be perfectly straight again.)
To that end, I wonder everyday what you are going to ultimately take away from everything – our life, your childhood. What are going to be the things that you vaguely recall for college essays or when raising your own kid. What’s shaping who you are.
Without being sentimental, I hope you at least remember these things from your baby/toddler/preschool years:
- Holding a baby alligator and kissing the face of a python in Louisiana
- The community at your preschool – Gena (the teacher who helped you feel comfortable leaving home), Sasha (your first best friend* – and you only get one 1st best friend), Michaels and James (who were the first boys to want to marry you – well, Michael wanted to marry you and James wanted to marry Sasha).
- * There’s a strong possibility that your first best friend might be Bauer or Remy – so I hope you remember them too.
- Having your name called out by Santa in Idaho – and being totally amazed.
- Our parties, which hopefully helped you dream bigger. (Not just remembering all the time spent decorating – which you did not enjoy)
- Your Grandparents. You are lucky enough to have spent time with all four of your grandparents – something your mom and I never got. I hope you remember them and I also hope you remember my grandparent – Grandmother. I want them to always be carried on in your stories.
- All the zoos we’ve visited – so you will always appreciate that we need to care for animals.
- The desert, the ocean, and the mountains – so you will always feel at little comfortable in any location.
There are more things, but since we don’t know where we are going to be in six months, it’s hard to tell what is going to become a memory and what’s going to become part of life.
There are other things though, things that you can’t really control that I hope you let grow – your bravery, your creativity, your awesome brain, your passion, your sense of humor.
(And for the first time, I realize all the attributes that are most striking in you put you on course to want to be an artists – which I vehemently don’t want for you…I blame myself)
Stay with me here, I’ll get to my point :: One of our best friends, Spencer, used to live up the street from your mom and I. We saw him just about everyday for a couple of years. Now we live thousands of miles away from each other. When we talk, I look back to those time and have the passing though ‘I wish we’d done more’. But that quickly evaporates because we literally did everything we could do in that time. Sure, I can wish for more of that time, but we did the absolute most we could with the time we had. That’s what I think of when I think of how fast and slow these five years have gone by.
I can always want more time with you at each stage of your life (and probably always will) but, you me and your mom, we’re packing everything into the time we have. I never thought I’d be a person that was able to live this way, but we are. We’re so lucky.
When I look back today (or late last night), I don’t see many missed opportunities and from the self help and op-eds I’ve read that seems to be the most a person can ask for in their life. We have done so much, and, though it’s really hard for me to say goodbye to your first four years (like really hard – like I couldn’t say what I’m writing out loud right now – and I keep misspelling things, hard), maybe 5 is a gift.
Maybe this year, and I hope this year, is the first year that when I watch you have an amazing experience – I don’t have to think ‘she’ll probably forget this’. Instead, I’ll get to think ‘one day, we’ll both look back on this together.’ That would be excellent.
So, let this be the year that we all will start building our life together and be able to remember all the details for the rest of our lives. I’d like that. (and I’m fine keeping all your baby moments to myself in my own head, just for me to relive forever and then randomly share them with you like little treats).
Love you,
Dad