I have great intentions, but without deadlines most of those don’t come to fruition. One of the reasons I created a blog was to capture this time when my sons are young. So I’m excited to join a group of friends, moms, and fellow photographers as we share about the boys in our lives on the third Friday of each month. We will be writing a letter to our sons each month. You can follow our blog circle to Leslie Norgren of Loving What We Live Photography next, and continue all the way back here.
Just typing your name makes me smile. That’s you, above, in a passport photo at age 5 1/2. Hilarious. Happy. Alive. Full of enthusiasm and so full of love. That’s how I’d describe you.
I take a little pride in not having a favorite child, but five is definitely one of my favorite ages. Still unabashedly affectionate, and able to share all your ideas and stories, you delight me.
You recently carried a stack of board books to the couch, announcing that you were going to “reread all my favorites---from when I was little.” I’m including a 40-second video of you reading Brown Bear, because this is my blog and I can get away with it here.
I still think of you as little, but your body is growing. You’ve lost that Buddha belly I so loved. You started kindergarten this year, and you love it, despite the occasional complaint that you have to go “tomorrow, again?”
One of the highlights of my day is walking down to the bus stop with Duke to greet you. I love that you are home an hour earlier than your brothers and that we still have a little “mommy and me time” as you call it. I love that you are already mid-sentence, telling me the big news from Ms. Sheila’s class, before you finish stepping off the bus. I love that your coat is half on and half your backpack unpacked, even though I complain about both every time.
You say “thank you” more than anyone else I know. I still remember when you weren’t yet talking (and you had us slightly worried you know, waiting until you were well past two to start), and you walked up to your dad, signing “thank you” and gesturing at the balloon you’d been playing with for days. When you learn I’m making pasta for dinner, you run to hug me and always say, “Thanks, Mom. You’re the best.” And I know you’re mostly relieved it isn’t the stew or soup you dread, but I soak it in all the same.
You will forever be the great surprise of my life. We had just driven all our baby hand-me-downs to your Aunt Elizabeth in Texas when I started throwing up on the way home. I’m a lister and a planner, my boy, and you threw me for a loop, but the best things that have ever happened to me (falling for your dad my senior year, moving to Utah of all places) have all been unexpected. You balance our family in a way that we so needed. You lifted the pressure of comparison off your big brothers, and you gave me a chance to revisit mothering an infant with the full knowledge that it was my last time. So you might be indulged just a bit, okay, more than a bit, but really---we’re indulging ourselves in you.
Thank you, Nolie, for sharing your joy and laughter with all of us. Thank you for teaching us to be grateful and to see everyday things as adventures. May you continue to grow and explore, always knowing you are loved.
More than all the stars,