A week ago you turned fifty eight months old.

I can feel the momentum of your letters slowing down. I said I would write until your fifth birthday, and I can feel that day approaching. It’s not that there’s nothing to talk about, but it feels so personal now. Less about me as your mother, and more about you as a child. A growing child. 

You are suddenly big this month. Your words are different. Your body larger. Your thoughts have advanced.

You are rhyming words, and writing names, and memorizing spellings of things.

I filled out your Kindergarten paperwork and had a moment. A joyful moment - I am so excited for the years to come, and a mournful moment - I will cherish the precious few days that remain of your early childhood.

I have been working. Working consistently and quite a bit and more than I ever did, really, until now. It has been very tricky. I have struggled to figure out who will watch you and your sister while I get things done, and in the last few months it’s been especially hard as things have shifted and gaps have opened. I felt swallowed up for several months, but then I decided to call it good enough. It is enough. It’s not perfect, there’s a wonky balance, but it works for now. I suddenly saw the summer on the horizon and then Kindergarten starting and I began to appreciate the few days we have left together, in our jammies, unshowered, never going anywhere at anytime. These days are numbered.

These last weeks of considering which school you should attend have had your papa and myself reflecting on who you are. You are smart, yes. You are challenged and challenging, yes. You have the full spectrum of strentghths and weakness. You are a complete person. It’s utterly beautiful.

Happy Fifty Eighth Monthday.