Yesterday, my son turned five years old. I. Can't. Believe. It.

He woke with a bounce in his step, and presented his face with a grin for inspection. I pronounced him "full of birthday sparkles" and he glowed with pride.

He spontaneously composed and performed an elaborate song about being five year old, yeah yeah yeaaaaaah. It was awesome. I'm going to have to get it on video. (Click here to see another birthday song he created on the fly.)
This child of mine, who kept me waiting six days beyond his due date, kept me waiting once again this morning as I tried to lure him away from his birthday booty and into his school clothes.

We had a small family party last night, with my sister and parents. Afterwards, we tucked him into bed, and I spent a few moments snuggling with him, talking about his big day.

We also talked about other things. He was really concerned that he is the only boy, because with two sisters, he figures things could get messy when he has to pick which sister to marry, and he figures maybe I should have another boy just to simplify the sister-marrying.

I told him no.

It did get me thinking about babies, though. My son's babyhood was a blur. His downy head and fat cheeks gave way to a pointed chin like his sisters and bony shoulders. He had a hematoma in the middle of his back shortly after birth, and although the redness is gone, the white patch remains. Our pediatrician smiled when I brought my newborn son in, panic-stricken at the growing red blotch in the middle of his snowy skin.

"That's where his angel wings detached."

I wonder as he grows, if this mark will bother him, or if he will be teased. Even though he is the most sensitive of my children, he doesn't seem to dwell on imperfection, his own, or anyone else's.

Of the three children, he is the most "me." He trips through his day, si-i-ing-ing at the top of his lungs. He is a toodle-loo-er, full of cheery little waves, cheesy winks and kisses blown messily and with alacrity. In the space of an average hour, he professes undying love and never-ending disaster at least six times each.

He considers personal names unimportant, and calls all of his friends "my friend" in lieu of their actual name. When I quiz him, he honestly doesn't know why I care what their names might be. He likes everyone, and in his book, everyone likes him. He is content to be known as "friend" or "kid" or "brother" or "hey, you" as long as someone notices and wants to play. Or better yet, listen.

The kid can talk. And talk. And talk and talk and talk. He has many opinions, and loves to share a good factoid or ten.

I'm like that, too. And it cheers me to see such a funny, kind, gentle, earnest version of myself flitting around. This child is full of love, with an equal portion of baloney. He fills our house with the kind of chaos only a Virgo can deliver.

Somehow, his five seems much smaller, much younger than when my oldest turned five. I am enchanted by his Elmer Fudd accent and his inability to keep a birthday wish to himself. I love that he has no volume control on his voice, and that he doesn't understand WHY THAT MIGHT BE A PROBLEM, MOMMY. SHEESH!

I hope that the growing-up years are gentle with my son. I hope that he keeps his sense of wonder and merriment. I hope that he really becomes a paleontologist/construction guy/professional mama's boy. I hope that he continues to believe everyone is his friend, and that his sisters are the most perfect creatures to ever grace the earth. Unless, of course, he keeps on with the sister-wife bull, because that ain't happenin' y'all.

Happy Fifth Birthday, buddy! I love you to the ends of the universe.