A letter to Theo, age 4
You told a cashier at Trader Joe's that you were "a pretend pirate but a real boy." She gave you a sticker. That same month you started saying wow wow wow every time we opened something — not whoa whoa whoa, you were clear about that, the Ws mattered — and you poured your own cereal, two hands, bowl right at the edge of the counter, no spills.
You tried to convince me Greg the dinosaur had a job. "Greg works at the office, mama." You started saying "I'm thinking about it" before answering anything at all. And you buttoned your own pajamas — just the top button, took ten minutes, wouldn't accept help.
I found you "shaving" in the bathroom with a tongue depressor and a cup of water, very serious about it. You started calling Mira "my best baby," which she technically is by default, but you meant it as the highest praise there is. You drew a T on your own, crooked but recognizable, and it's still on the fridge.
Even on a bad morning you made me laugh — you told your teacher I'd given you "a coupon for one hug at 11am," and she honored it. You told me, more than once, "I'm not ready yet, mama. I'll be ready in a minute." And you learned every kid's name in your classroom the first week and recited them each night like a roll call.
You put Mira's diaper on her head and called it a hat. It was clean, you pointed out. Still. "Mira is my best baby" kept going. And you poured her milk into her bottle, cap on, wet floor everywhere — but the impulse was right.
At the aquarium you said "oh my god" three times in front of the otters, quietly, like in church. You started putting "actually" before every sentence — "Actually, I love you." "Actually, where's Mira?" And you climbed the rope ladder that had been too tall for you for a year, and came down by yourself.
You told your grandfather he was "old but cool, like a banana." Nobody has figured out what that meant. At 7am, eleven minutes into being awake, you announced, "I have a lot of feelings today, mama." And you brushed your own teeth, top and bottom, unprompted, and spit in the sink without being asked. Big move.
You became a chef this month and made me a sandwich that was a banana between two slices of cheese. I ate it. "Cooking is a journey, mama," you told me — direct quote. And you held Mira on the couch for a whole minute, asking the whole time if you were doing it right. You were.
You told a stranger at the playground that your baby was home with your dad "because she is being a wild animal." You told me your plan: "When I grow up I'm going to be a dad and a doctor and a person who finds shells." And you read your own name off a name-tag at the children's museum — T-H-E-O — and could not believe it was really there.
Your shadow became Greg too, after the dinosaur. "My Gregs are everywhere, mama." You announced "I'm worried about Mira" while Mira sat there eating a cracker, completely fine. And you let go of my hand crossing the street without being told to look both ways — and looked both ways anyway.
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 ranked your love for me — "I love you the most. After Mira. And after Greg" — and I am okay with this ranking. And you sang "Twinkle Twinkle" start to finish in the bath, with a verse I'd never heard before. You wrote it yourself.
You told your whole preschool class you were "almost a fiver." You asked me not to tell anyone, but you were getting bigger. And when I asked what you wanted for your birthday, you said: a flashlight, and one minute to be alone. You got both.
From Mama — I wrote these down because I didn't want to lose them, not because the year was anything other than ordinary and specific and yours. You said a lot of things this year that I will be quoting back to you for the rest of your life, whether you like it or not. Happy birthday, Theo. Go use that flashlight.