Year 4 — a letter to Theo, age 4
Month 1. You told the cashier at Trader Joe's that you were "a pretend pirate but a real boy." She gave you a sticker. You say "wow wow wow" every time we open something — not "whoa whoa whoa." The Ws are important to you. This month you poured your own cereal without spilling, holding the bowl with two hands right at the edge of the counter.
Month 2. You tried to convince me that Greg, your stuffed dinosaur, has a job. "Greg works at the office, mama." You've started saying "I'm thinking about it" before answering any question at all. You buttoned your own pajamas — just the top one, it took ten minutes, and you wouldn't accept help.
Month 3. I found you in the bathroom "shaving" with a tongue depressor and a cup of water, your face very serious. You started calling Mira "my best baby." She's technically your only baby. You mean it as the highest praise. You drew the letter T on your own — crooked but recognisable — and it's on the fridge.
Month 4. 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've been 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 and recite them every night like a roll call.
Month 5. You insisted Mira's diaper was a hat and put it on her head. She didn't mind. It was clean, still. "Mira is my best baby" — still going. You poured Mira's milk into her bottle with the cap on — wet floor, but the impulse was right.
Month 6. At the aquarium 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 that's been too tall for you for a year, and came down by yourself.
Month 7. You told your grandfather he was "old but cool, like a banana." Nobody knows what you meant. At 7am, having been awake for eleven minutes, you said, "I have a lot of feelings today, mama." You brushed your own teeth, top and bottom, without me asking, and spit in the sink without prompting. Big move.
Month 8. You decided you were a chef and made me a "sandwich" — banana between two slices of cheese. I ate it. "Cooking is a journey, mama." Direct quote. You held Mira on the couch for a whole minute, asking if you were doing it right. You were.
Month 9. 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 your own name off a sign — T-H-E-O on a name-tag at the children's museum — and couldn't believe it.
Month 10. Your shadow got named Greg too, after the dinosaur. "My Gregs are everywhere, mama." You told me, "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, and looked both ways anyway.
Month 11. You went on a "business trip" to the living room, backpack and all, and came back four minutes later because "the meeting was cancelled." You told me, "I love you the most. After Mira. And after Greg." I am okay with this ranking. You sang "Twinkle Twinkle" start to finish in the bath, with a verse I'd never heard before. You wrote it yourself.
Month 12. You told your preschool class you were "almost a fiver." You said, "Don't tell anyone, but I'm getting bigger." When I asked what you wanted for your birthday, you said: "a flashlight and one minute to be alone." You got both.
From Mama. Greg has a job, a shadow, and a place in your heart ranked just below Mira's — I've made my peace with that. This was the year you started narrating yourself to me, out loud, in real time, like you needed me to know exactly who you were becoming. I wrote all of it down so that someday you can read it back and see yourself at four, thinking, worrying about Mira over a cracker, asking for one minute alone. I love you the most too, Theo — after nobody.