My Beloved First-Born,
It is quite simply ridiculous that you are no longer a baby or a toddler, but a boy. It is both traumatic and absolutely wonderful to have both you and your brother’s birthdays in the same month. Regardless of whether or not I want you to, you are (both) growing up. Let me tell you a little bit about what you have done and who you have become this year.

Yes, it is true! You are now riding a full-on, two-wheeled, no training wheels bike. It took you an hour to learn and a day to master and there were no falls and barely any bruises. Although, there was still whining. And tears. Let’s work on that this year, shall we?

In just over a year, you’ve gained a brother. Your world was shaken, turned topsy-turvy, but you’ve handled it with the grace and wisdom of someone ten times your age. You love your brother. You play with him, you teach him, you laugh with him. It’s beautiful to watch you two develop a relationship. This isn’t to say that when your brother wants the toy you are playing with or copies every little thing you do it doesn’t drive you mad, but for the most part you’re cool with it. The other day I left you two alone while I went to change the wash to the dryer. Upon my return, your brother had velcro Nerf Darts stuck all over the back of his diaper. I’m assuming this is how you enact revenge for playing with your space rocket: by shooting him in the butt with your Nerf Darts. Let’s just always keep it to spongey, velcro-tipped, soft projectiles, please. I don’t need the kind of hazing your Dad and his brother used to perform on each other with their beebee guns.

Which leads us to this picture. While we were visiting your Paw-Paw out on the Ranch, you learned how to shoot a beebee gun. Your mama had grand designs never to introduce guns into your life. I’m much more of an anti-gun, peace person, but I’ve come to believe that shooting things are in Little Boy DNA. Anything can be made into a weapon and while I don’t condone pretending to shoot real people, you’re all about blowing up your Lego created towns. Oy. I think I’m getting heartburn.

You’ve tried many different sports and activities this past year.
Roller-Blade Hockey:

Not so much a fan, but you were pretty amazing. You have the balance of a gymnast (you get it from me) and are a quick learner (also: ME). Alas, you did not possess the patience to stick with it (your father). Maybe someday.
Tennis:

You’re good. You’re damn good. And! You like it, which, BONUS. As much as I’d like to, I can’t take credit for this. Your father is the tennis player in this family. I don’t do well when balls are hurtling towards me at a rapid speed.
Soccer:

You weren’t exactly a fan at first. Probably because you come from a fairly lazy stock. Your mama would much rather the object come to her than to run after it. But after a few false starts and some picking the flowers in the goal box, you’ve caught on to the whole Ball In THEIR Goal aspect of the game and your killer instinct (Again, ME) is kicking in. (See also: Your mama is a woman of many contradictions. Get used to this and expect it to show up somewhere in your life.)

Yoga, golf, karate, and the violin are some of the other things you have tried. You and I go to yoga once a week and you’re still trying to figure it out. Like me, you are cripplingly shy and haven’t yet learned the Art of Doing It Anyway. I know you enjoy yoga because I watch your face. It lights up as the other children are talking, laughing, and posing. My hope for you is that you conquer your apprehension (self-consciousness? I’m not really sure where it comes from) and can learn to force yourself to participate anyway. I know how much joy you would find in that.

Your favorite things are all wheel and horse-power related. As in, you love cars. You have no less than 496,265 Hot Wheels cars and a whole bunch of remote control vehicles. Lucky boy that you are, your grandparents also gave you this for Christmas two years ago:

Cue mama’s heart attack. You’ve sat through all of our required lessons on safety and have learned to drive like a pro. You and your father zip around the neighborhood (because, of course, he has one too) and I can barely watch for the panic this induces in me. My baby! Driving! Something about this seems totally wrong, but I know it’s creating memories that will last you a lifetime.

This family has the kind of sense of humor that others may find, well, offensive. We are constantly razing each other and making jokes at each other’s expense. Needless to say, one needs guts to survive here. This year your sense of humor has developed and it would be no lie to say that you fit right in. You still enjoy all of the young boy’s jokes about farts and poop and butts, but you’ve developed a keen comedic timing and perfect sense of irony and dry wit. It is with pride (and some serious embarrassment) that I tell you about the joke you played on me the other morning at the school drop-off. I do not get along, nor even like very much, the principal of your lower school. She is a fake, phony bitch and, sadly, you know about the way I feel about her. (This was accidental. The last thing I want is for you to have opinions on things based on my experiences. I’d rather you learn for yourself and work out your own belief. Regardless, I forgot: Little pitchers have big ears.) This woman happened to be helping you out of the car on this particular morning and, as we were exchanging pleasantries and goodbyes, you looked at me and said, “Now remember, Mama, don’t cancel my birthday party!” This was an empty threat I had given the night before when you wouldn’t go to bed. The old bag principal looked at me, shocked that I would even suggest such a thing and said, “I’m sure your mom would never do that.” To which you replied, “Of course she would! We are talking about the same woman, right?” For about a split second, I was speechless. Does he really think I’m that mean of a mama? That is, until you looked me dead in the eye, winked, and then bust up laughing. Thanks, dude. You really know how to make me feel special.

You’re old enough now that holidays are massively fun. This year was the first year that we really went trick-or-treating and you were all about the candy. By the way, your homemade Darth Vader costume? It totally rocked and you were the Most Awesome Darth Vader Ever. We took a hayride through the back part of town and stopped at all the houses along the way. You quickly made friends with all the other young kids in our trailer and raced to each house to grab as much sugar-laden crap as would fit in your small hands. Christmas was also a blast. We left cookies for Santa and you crafted a glorious letter to him, thanking him for his journey and your presents. Such a big heart you have, my smiley, Bug Boy. I always say, “You can’t teach a child to have a kind heart.” You have the kindest heart of any five six year old I have met this far.

Last week I decided that you need to start falling asleep in your own room, without your dad sitting at the foot of your bed. This has been an extremely difficult transition– for both of us. When you were just a baby, I left you to cry in your crib. I thought I was teaching you how to self-soothe and how to learn to fall asleep. I now realize this taught you nothing because I’m starting back at Square One. Only now, instead of crying you yell out to me to tell me how sad you are. I’m sad too, buddy. One night after an hour of you calling out for more water, a trip to the bathroom, a snack, you asked me if you could look at pictures of your family if you couldn’t fall asleep. This made me all teary because I realized that you just wanted to look at the faces of the people who give you comfort. We also modified the transition. I now sit in the hallway, just where you can see me, and wait for you to drift into the Land of Nod. It works better because you know I am there and, sweetheart, I will always be there. I want you to learn your own way in the world, to learn to navigate fear and loneliness, but I will always provide you safe harbor if a storm passes your way.

You started out FIVE needing flotation devices to help you swim and throughout the year, have learned to dive, to swim laps, and to do the breast stroke. What will this year bring? I look forward to finding out with you. So, Giggle Boy, it is with a bittersweet sigh that I bid farewell to Five. I welcome Six and all your new accomplishments with joy, but I will always remember that this was the year you became All Grown Up. You don’t quite need me in the same way that you used to, but in strange and news ways. Forgive me if I stumble, as we already know I’m not perfect. I’m learning, just like you, and I’m trying to be a better mother every day. It is beautiful to watch you grow, learn, become.

I love you,
Mama