To my 5-year old JEB

Dear John-John,

If only I had known how wonderful five-year olds are! I would've probably been more inclined to consider having another newborn prior to now. I know I’m not supposed to have favorites, but this is the best JEB ever! Do I love you more now than I ever have? Absolutely. I can’t help it; you are delicious.

All the adjectives I can think of to describe you will sound dull compared to how they feel when you exemplify them: LOVING, SWEET, FUNNY, SMART, CONFIDENT, CARING, ENERGETIC, TALKATIVE, THOUGHTFUL, GENEROUS, OUTSTANDING, and MORE (of course). When I watch you, I understand what my daddy meant every time he said, “You’re my pride & joy.” I get it now.

The five-alive you makes me feel badly about all those times I joked of dropping you off at the fire station (you know, they don't ask questions). The five-year-old you has me wrapped completely around his finger (even when it has a big booger on it). The fabulous-five you feels like the perfect thing to pick up after work, the most fun buddy in the world, the biggest love ever.

These are a few of my favorite things:

• Your stash of candy in the freezer
• Your affinity for saving the best for last
• Your inspection of food products for contaminants such as food dye or high fructose corn syrup
• Your reminders in the morning ("Mom, did you get your water bottle, the keys, my lunch?")
• Your sweet tooth (makes sense -- you were named after Pappaw, who worked at an ice cream factory)
• Your ability to tie your own shoes and your business sense about this marketable skill (not all the kids in pre-K can tie shoes, so Ms. Audrey pays you one Skittle for each shoe you tie at school)
• Your heartbroken expression when I told you that Skittles contain food dye
• Your obsession with finding out which toys are for 5+ year olds
• Your embarrassing comments at "the popcorn doctor" (chiropractor) regarding who is old, who is a good doctor, which vaccines and medications you've had (to the doctor's horror), etc.
• Your stories, wherein there is almost always a "tootin' contest"
• Your questions about "seegarettes" and "littering" -- a double whammy
• Your big plans for the baby -- your baby

Oh but bud, despite all the evidence that things are going generally well for you, I worry. I try not to, but I cannot help but fret about the silliest things. I worry that my decreased time with you when the baby comes will negatively and permanently affect you, send you into therapy, and make you resent the baby. Or me.

I worry that you will watch The Fox & the Hound so much that you will start talking like Amos Slade and calling women “dadblasted females.” (Interestingly enough, I’ve never been concerned that the dadblasted female in that movie calls Amos a trigger-happy lunatic.)

I worry that I’m too hard on you. I worry that I’m too easy on you. I worry that I’m inconsistently hard and easy.

It’s ridiculous.

But despite all of my fears that I could never be as good of a mom as you are a kid, most of my time is spent these days saying, “Isn’t he sweet? Isn’t this a great stage? Isn’t he hilarious?”

You’re the kind of kid who thanks me for taking care of you when you’re sick. You’re the kind of kid who notices when a friend is having a bad day and lends them a toy (albeit for a specified amount of time). You’re the kind of kid who gets excited about having his own library card … going fishing … eating out at a restaurant … playing Go Fish ... getting a popsicle (or Gatorade or Sprite or unhealthy chips) … having a baby.

And so I worry that your joie de vivre will fade, your curiosity will ebb, your innocence will trickle away.

My most favorite thing about the five-year old you is how much you are like your dad. Good and bad, you’re like your dad. You have a strong loyalty to the family, a great love of grandparents and other relatives, a fascination with recycling & biking & Jack Johnson, a temper, a tendency to fall apart when you’re tired, an affinity for early mornings, Waffle House, storytelling, tools.

And so I worry that we will come to rue the teenage years.

John-John, you steal my heart almost every day. I beam when you say to people, “Now there are four of us!” I light up when you pitter-pat into my bedroom: “Mornin’ Mom hey guess what!” I love your you-ness.

It’s so hard to let/watch you grow up, but it’s simultaneously easy and really fun. Thanks for that.

With love and a big hug -- HAPPY FIVE!
Your Mah-ten-Mama

p.s. Don’t forget to pay your bills! See you in the funny papers!