My beloved son,

How is that you have been with us for half a decade? Or one whole hand, as you put it.

If I close my eyes, I can see that snuggly baby version of you (“Cheeks,” as your dad nicknamed you—for good reason). But when I tried to lift you up the other day, I was shocked by how solid you are. When was the last time I held you? I wondered. After having you in my arms for five years, that “last” went by without fanfare, without warning.

Yesterday you were talking about how some of your friends stay at preschool in the afternoon, and I asked if you wanted to do that too.

“Mom, you’d be too sad,” you said solemnly. “What would you do if I was gone all day?”

I smiled at your tender oblivion to my to-do list, but all at once my smile got caught somewhere in my esophagus. Because in the fall you will be gone all day. I might be more productive, but indeed, I’ll be a little sad too. I’ve been here before, standing at the cusp of kindergarten, and I know how this goes. Once you start “real school,” it’s like going from the bunny hill to the black diamond: straight down from here. While you’re zipping ahead, I’ll be behind you, snowplowing the whole way.

I love the person you’re becoming—the deep questions and silly ideas and bursts of empathy that bubble up from inside you. I wouldn’t trade in any of this big kid stuff. But I do miss the way your pudgy baby fingers used to squish my cheeks and the way you called your brother by a special tongue click (and later “Dam-dam”) and how you looked at us with an impish grin before jumping from any number of inadvisable heights.

***

You came home from school one day last week and matter-of-factly informed me that one of your best friends said she didn’t want to be friends with you anymore.

“How did that make you feel?” I asked, trying to be all neutral and Dr. Becky about it, despite the thundering of my own heart.

You flashed me that dimpled grin, shrugged, and said, “Oh, she didn’t mean it, Mom. We should invite her to my birthday party.”

***

You are growing up, is what I’m trying to say. And that makes me proud and happy and misty-eyed all at once. No, I’m not trying to rewind time, but I do kind of wonder where it all went.

I do know, though.

In these past five years, we went down slides at the park. We read books. We held hands. We pretended to be dogs. We sang silly songs in the car. We ate pancakes and drank hot chocolate brimming with marshmallows. We rode our bikes and applied hundreds of Band-Aids. We said bedtime prayers. We made up nonsense rhymes and spun far-fetched tales about lions. You told Dad and me “I love you” dozens of times a day. You turned somersaults in the living room and jumped off the couch and built forts and Lego creations and played with your brother.

You became yourself. You are still becoming yourself.

And we are so grateful God picked us to be in the front row, cheering you on.

We love you, our five-year-old.

Mom and Dad