Tag Archives: preschool

Bold, bright and brave: a birthday tribute

As a baby, you stuck to me like glue, nursing ‘round the clock and snoozing on my chest. Throughout your first year, we broke all the “sleep rules” with you, and we didn’t care. You were our long-awaited second child, our rainbow baby after miscarriage, and our last child, given my age. Your dad and I were going to savor you.

Adam, you arrived five years and two days after your brother Jack was born, and you haven’t stopped chasing him since. Milestone after milestone, you’d leap frog past our expectations, determined to be just like Jack.

No one told me that younger siblings tend to age faster than their older siblings, and the ache to keep you little is one I’ve felt acutely in your third year. You started preschool this past fall, and each week, you share new revelations with me — singing songs, scribbling your name and chatting about your new pals. After we get home from school, you want to sit on my lap when we eat lunch together; you like a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or chicken nuggets and cucumbers.

You also like free building with Legos or Magna-tiles, playing your brother’s Switch, playing with and/or annoying your brother and drinking root beer as a special treat. You are bold, bright and brave, barreling into new experiences and connecting with new playmates. “Watch me, Mom!” is a common refrain. Your zest for life inspires me.

You’re my little buddy, helping load laundry and wipe the kitchen table clean. You accompany me to the library, Trader Joe’s and Target often. Sometimes, we’ll do coffee and pastry dates. And when it’s warm enough, we’ll walk our dog to the playground and play pirates there.

Even though you’re so big, you still like to be close to me when you sleep. After storytime and lights out, I’ll snuggle next to you in your bed for five minutes. When I say, “It’s time for me to get ready for bed,” you protest, begging for “One more minute!” repeatedly. Finally, I say goodnight, and you hold my face in your hands and kiss me on the forehead with relish, an echo of how I kissed your forehead as a babe.

Happy fourth birthday, Adam. It’s a gift to love and be loved by you.

This is three

You always want to be in the driver’s seat. Whether it’s toy cars, trains, or dictating the day’s plans, you love taking charge. 

You’re my little buddy, accompanying me everywhere — to the grocery store, your big brother’s school and Target pickup. Helping me is a favorite pastime. You’ll gladly clean mirrors, wash dishes and sweep. After our work is done, you ask to visit the library, the children’s museum or the pool at our apartment. You love the water, splashing and jumping in like a dare devil. 

You live off Chobani Flips, Chick-fil-A nuggets, fruit, pasta, juice boxes and milk, preferably chocolate. 

You say “kiss me on the nose” and “you’re my best friend” and “shut your mouth Jack” to your brother (I don’t like hearing that last one). Sometimes your emotions come out in strong words or tears. I get it. Being human is hard. We’re working on acknowledging our BIG feelings — together.

You adore your dad, your dog and your big brother Jack (whom you’re always emulating or annoying — often both!). Other than me or Jack, Grandma is your favorite playmate. When you play, you build forts and houses and roads with your imagination. You told us that, when you grow up, you want to be a construction worker. 

Your favorite show is Paw Patrol (Rubble and Crew is also acceptable). You like to read Richard Scarry and Berenstain Bears and Froggy stories. 

Daily you’re becoming more independent. You can put on your pants, shoes and a jacket, but you still ask me to “zip and wrap it up.”  Your favorite outfit is your blue pocket sweater you picked out from Old Navy, black Nike pants and training underwear “just like Jack’s.” You’re currently learning to use the potty, work that’s messy and hard and exhausting. We’ll keep at it. 

At bedtime, you still want to fall asleep in my arms. Lately, you’ve been asking me to stop hugging you — you say you’d rather hug me! I reply, “Alright, Adam, you can hold me. Soon enough, you won’t need to hold me. I think you’re almost ready to fall asleep on your own.”

Unfortunately, I’m not ready. For any of it — new bedtime routines, how fast you stopped holding my hand (you prefer to put your hands in your pockets), and this coming August, when you’ll begin preschool. You are my last baby, and I’m finding it hard to watch you grow. This is motherhood: a delicate dance of holding you and letting you go.

“I’m not a baby,” you’d tell me. “I’m a big boy now.”

You’re right, of course. Today you’re three. Happy birthday to you, big boy. What a joy it is to be your mom.