A sample annual letter

You told the cashier at Trader Joe's that you were "a pretend pirate but a real boy." She gave you a sticker. You also started saying "wow wow wow" every time we opened something — not "whoa whoa whoa." The Ws were important. You poured your own cereal without spilling. The bowl was right at the edge of the counter but you held it with two hands.

You tried to convince me that your stuffed dinosaur Greg had a job. "Greg works at the office, mama." You also started saying "I'm thinking about it" before answering any question. You buttoned your own pajamas this month — just the top one, but it took you 10 minutes and you wouldn't accept help.

I found you in the bathroom "shaving" with a tongue depressor and a cup of water. Your face was very serious. You started calling your sister Mira "my best baby." She is technically your only baby. You meant it as the highest praise. You drew the letter T on your own. Crooked but recognisable. I hung it on the fridge.

We had a hard month — you started preschool and didn't want to go. But even on the bad mornings you made me laugh. You told your teacher "my mama gave me a coupon for one hug at 11am." She honored it. You kept saying "I'm not ready yet, mama. I'll be ready in a minute." You learned the names of every kid in your classroom in the first week. You recited them every night like a roll call.

You insisted Mira's diaper was a hat. You put it on her head. She didn't mind. It was very clean. Still. You were still calling her "my best baby." You poured Mira's milk into her bottle. With the cap on. Wet floor. But — the impulse was right.

We went to the aquarium and you said "oh my god" three times in front of the otters. Quietly. Like in church. You started saying "actually" before every sentence. "Actually, I love you." "Actually, where's Mira?" You climbed the rope ladder at the playground that has been too tall for you for a year. You came down by yourself.

You told your grandfather that he was "old but cool, like a banana." Nobody knows what you meant. You said "I have a lot of feelings today, mama" at 7am, having been awake for 11 minutes. You brushed your own teeth, top and bottom, without me asking. You spit in the sink without prompting. Big move.

You decided you were a chef this month. You made me a "sandwich" that was a banana between two slices of cheese. I ate it. You said "Cooking is a journey, mama." Direct quote. From a 4-year-old. You held Mira while we were on the couch. Whole minute. You kept asking if you were doing it right. You were.

You told a stranger at the playground "my baby is at home with my dad because she is being a wild animal." You said "When I grow up I'm going to be a dad and a doctor and a person who finds shells." You read me your name on a sign. Just T-H-E-O on a name-tag at the children's museum. You couldn't believe it.

You decided your shadow was named Greg too (after the dinosaur). "My Gregs are everywhere, mama." You said "I'm worried about Mira." Mira was fine. She was eating a cracker. You let go of my hand crossing the street without being told to look both ways. You looked both ways anyway.

You told me you were "going on a business trip" to the living room. You took your backpack. You came back 4 minutes later "because the meeting was cancelled." You said "I love you the most. After Mira. And after Greg." Greg is the dinosaur. I am OK with this ranking. You sang a whole song from start to finish in the bath. "Twinkle Twinkle" with a verse I had never heard. You wrote that verse.

You told your preschool class you were "almost a fiver." You said "Don't tell anyone, but I'm getting bigger." You told me what you wanted for your birthday — "a flashlight and one minute to be alone." You got both.

From MamaThis was the year of Greg and "my best baby" and the month you decided you were a chef. You grew careful with your hands and braver on the playground. I watched you become a person who looks both ways.