Month forty-eight

Dear Henry,

You. Are. Four. What an adventure this has been! You have gone from being a human baby blob incapable of all but the most basic of functions, and even some of those you couldn't do without assistance, to being a super independent and vocal mass of energy. You have your own wants and needs and know precisely how to express yourself. You can be extremely defiant but often really pliable. It's the extremes that throw me. We're both learning how to live in a world where you can do the things you want to do (i.e., visit the toy store and play) while I get time to do the things I need to do (e.g., clean, cook, blog, etc.). As your papa would say, "it's a process". He would say that with the long O sound since he's Canadian. Silly, papa.

One day, when you have a kid of your own, people are going to talk about how kids are like sponges and soak up everything. You might be inclined to not believe all that, I mean, how much can a kid pick up anyway? Answer: Everything. Which is why when I comment about how the person driving in front of us is from Washington and then ask you what we know about Washington drivers, you'll say "They're bad." Yes, son, they are. It also means that you had your first recorded f-bomb. It was casual and appropriate given that I'd just dropped a bunch of stuff on the floor. I'm proud to say that not only did I not laugh, I was able to explain about mama words and Henry words and where the f-word falls on that spectrum. Little boys shouldn't use that word in polite society. I suppose mama shouldn't either but, really, when am I ever around those folks?

Did I mention you've started calling me mom? Methinks you recognize the efficiency of using the shorter name, but I lament the loss of the mama moniker. I mean, it wasn't that long ago when you couldn't call me anything at all and a few short years later you're already doing away with the first name you gave me. On the other hand, I can totally imagine you coming home from college for Thanksgiving, bursting through the front door yelling, "Mom! I'm home!" And that is so awesome. Let me just say in advance that, yes, you can bring your laundry with you and I will wash it. That is what a mom does. Well, that or at least show you where the washer and dryer are so you can get cracking on your own laundry. I have pies to bake, Bean.

Things I discovered about you recently - you like to build rock shelters around slugs so that they can be protected from the elements. You bring your own flair to playing dress up with your girl friends, like the time you were at Cousin Mia's and you both got dolled up in your princess finery only to have you turn to Mia and say, "I'll be the baby octopus and you be the mama octopus." The idea that chocolate O's cereal turns your milk into chocolate milk blows your mind. Every time. You like to win but you're a sore loser. We're working on that because no one wants to play with a sore loser. You appreciate humor. We'll be reading a book or watching a movie - you are a great theatre companion, by the way - and you will hear or see something that tickles your funny bone. The laugh you have at these moments is one of my favorite laughs because it comes from a place that isn't forced or directed by anything other than your pure response. But your fake laugh, the one you break out when you want to join in on the fun but aren't sure what the heck we're laughing at, that laugh is pretty good, too.

It isn't always easy being the parent of a feisty four-year old, just as I'm sure it isn't a breeze being four. Expectations are higher, we're moving further away from the Hen-centric world we lived in for so long, and your mama and papa don't always want to play sea creatures or Legos or cars or... You get the picture. But taking everything into account, you make our lives way better than they ever were before you arrived. We're so glad you're here doesn't begin to explain it but we really are so very glad you are here.

Love,
Mama