Tomorrow Suttie turns 5. It’s impossible to digest that it’s
been 5 years since I was cleaning my baseboards, anticipating being induced the
next morning, and thought, “Hmmm…am I in labor?” 5 years since I called my
friends who’d already had kids and my mother to ask them if I was in labor. 5 years since I called Sutton at work and
told him to meet me at Burger King because I was, in fact, in labor, but had
waited to take a shower, apply makeup, and straighten my hair, thereby putting
us into a bit of a time crunch. 5 years since I met a chubby-cheeked,
completely snuggable little boy who, thank the Lord, still likes to cuddle with
his momma.
And while today and tomorrow will be days of remembrances – “remember
when he pooped while you were giving him his first bath, remember when he was
terrified of that stuffed cow, remember when he used to say ‘Bee-ya’ instead of
‘Bailey,’” there will also be days of looking forward, which is something we do
all the time anyway: “He’s so sweet and sensitive; I’m already dreading his
first broken heart.” / “The kid’s crazy smart. We have to make sure that he
uses it for good instead of evil.” / “He’s going away for college. That’s
final.”
5 seems big to me; 5 marks a change. He’s transitioning from
little kid to kid. He’ll start kindergarten in the fall. He’s losing all of the
lisps and language hitches that sustained his babyhood. He says “dominoes”
instead of “donimoes.” He wants to take showers and apply the shampoo himself.
This post seems sad, and, of course, in a way, it is. I’m
his mother. My chest clenches tightly when I hear him say “Mom” more than
“Mommy.” My eyes mist when I watch his toddler videos and realize that he’ll no
longer play with “Tono the Train”; it’s Thomas now.
But it’s happy, too. He’s 5. He’s healthy. He’s happy and
blessed. He knows love, how to give it and how to receive it. I am so immensely
proud of him. He’s caring and good and kind. He’s no longer afraid of a stuffed
cow, and it’s been weeks since he’s slung mashed carrots on the walls. He makes
me a better person by reminding me of what gentle innocence can be.
So, tomorrow, when he blows out a giant #5 candle with his
eyes closed and makes a wish for more Skylanders or for a later bed time or for
the end of all human suffering (each equally likely), I’ll be making a wish as well. A
wish for his continued happiness, a wish that, as he grows, he doesn’t lose the
qualities that make him essentially Suttie, his goodness and his compassion. A
wish that he will grow up strong and confident, but that he won’t do it too
quickly. That we’ll have a few more years of Legos and Ninja Turtles and
wanting to hang out with Mom and Dad, years of just being a boy who should be
in no rush to be a man.
