five

Dear Elliott,

Yesterday you turned five. What a fun and special weekend - all the more so because you knew we were celebrating you and because after three weeks of your questioning, we could finally say, "Yes!" You get thrilled over the simplest things like blowing out a candle or a card that plays a song. I love this about you. Nothing is too small to escape your notice or your delight. If I only had one quarter of your joie de vivre. And lucky me, because I live with you, I do.

In this last year, you have become quite the adventurer, daredevil and explorer. We ran across a carnival on the night of your birthday and you wanted to go on every ride. Watching you climb up the huge slide with your brother was incredibly nerve racking for your mama. You didn't think twice about it. Earlier in the day you not only happily tried fermented beet-garlic-ginger juice at a neighbor's house (when no other kid could could even be bribed to do it), you liked it and asked for more! Nothing phases you. Except maybe a bug in the house.

Today you brought five little friends on the train for a birthday adventure. You were beaming—a model train show, ice cream cones, presents, duck duck goose in the park. Your friends, your party, your favorite things. As much as you enjoyed it, you loved seeing your friends enjoy it. More than presents or treats or even blowing out that candle, nothing made you happier than knowing your friends would be along. The same goes for your mom. Every morning you ask me so earnestly, "Mama no go to work today?" And when I answer in the affirmative, the answer you don't want to hear, you ask the question again, with even more gusto. As if your repetitive asking of the exact same question in the exact same way, your very longing for my company, might elicit a different answer. It's heartbreaking to turn you down, but you recover like a champ. Your open-hearted resilience has been schooling me. You love people better than almost anyone I know.

Here you are five years old. You are as cute as can be. And you're a pistol. You love trains, taking endless photos and movies of yourself, pinching your brother, snuggling your blankie, making the craziest faces imaginable. You just learned to wear flip flops and will happily pee anywhere you see fit, including on the sidelines of a girls' soccer game and into the bathroom sink. You confidently ride the little yellow school bus every day and call the driver by name. You're such a fan of shaking your booty that one friend gave you a disco ball for your birthday. You are a clever, funny, daring, beautiful boy. I love you like crazy, my Incredible Mr. E, and feel so lucky to have you to teach me how to look at life through a better lens—a happy, people-loving, self-abandoning, life-embracing lens. You are a gem.

xoxo
Mama