I’m having some serious trouble, Choo Choo. You’re five. FIVE. You’ve hit that penultimate step from wee babe to being a grade-schooler (the last, obviously, is going to Kindergarten; at least we have a few months before that).
But still, five.
You’re a funny one, Choo Choo. You may be the oldest in your preschool class, but you sure don’t act your age. And I’ll be honest, that is what I love about you. You’re playful, loving, accepting, and stupidly adorable (something you seem to instinctively know, and use to your advantage, I might add). You skip more than you walk or run (I call you “Skippy” for a reason). You love doing flips by holding my hands, walking up my legs and flipping over backwards. You’ll curl up on Mommy’s or my lap as readily as Asia. You’re trying to not grow up.
And yet, you are. You’re taller than your sister was when she turned five. You’ve outgrown and/or destroyed several pairs of pants. You’re bigger than the bike you learned to ride last summer. You don’t fit in pretty much anything meant for a pre-schooler. Your car seat no longer uses its five-point harness. You can power back a pretty big chicken dinner.
But my lord do you have the sweetest face, the most wonderful (and ear-piercing) shriek when you’re having fun, you tell the greatest stories, and your imagination runs rampant in ways I can’t even begin to describe. I know that the day you actually decide to let us teach you how to read, you’ll discover great new things.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. You’re not there just yet.
For now, you’re still my wee one. Even if you’re not so wee.