You are six years old today, and right now you are a humid little lump sleeping next to me in Mama’s bed. “Mama Time” you call it.
It’s been six years, but I still don’t know exactly what I’m doing. Each time I get confident, each time I get the routine down, you go and change on me. In the proverbial leaps and bounds you make your way through stages of childhood, often leaving me behind in the cliche dust.
But I do know these things:
Your first best friend was named Julian and you greeted each other with a hug every day and cried when you had to part.
You say Gwanma. And Nonna. And have never confused the two.
You want to be a monkey when you grow up. And also a teacher. And a race car driver.
You are 100% right when you say pants with pockets only in the back are stupid.
Charlie will never have a better guide than you.
You own your Papa’s heart, and almost more importantly, his growth from a pretty darn good person to an amazing person.
You bite your nails, out of nervousness, and I worry about that. But you also are trying to quit, of your own choice, and quitting a habit is the hardest thing a human brain can do. So if you can’t, I got you. That goes for every thing. Every single thing.