Turns out turning five is tough. On me, that is. He’s all “I’m taller” and “I’ll go to kindergarten next year” and “this is the present I’ve always wanted.” And I’m dying a little bit inside.
(l-r, top-bottom: two days old, jaundiced and pea head still didn’t fill the hat; 1 yr old wagon ride – he could walk by then, but why?; 2 yrs old – leaf collecting, probably still pissed that his sister was born; 3 yrs old – on ‘cation in CO Springs; 4 yrs old – delayed birthday party because he woke up puking on his actual birthday; almost 5 yrs old – joint party with sister that he now loves)
If five is like this for me let’s not imagine what his first day of school will be like. Or his first date. Gah. My baby cannot grow up. I don’t want to hear about how it’s our job to raise them well, blah, blah, BLAH. He’s a kid. I am a mother to kids.
And I miss my babies.
Does this get easier?
Maybe Peter wrote something poignant.
PS: Yes, his eyes are really *that* blue. Do not show his picture to your daughters. He’s already betrothed.