The idea that I am no longer the mother of a five year-old, and never will be, somehow feels monumental.It’s like five is the threshold that divides little kids from big kids. Kindergarteners from school children. Girls who need help tying their own shoes from I CAN DO IT MYSELF, MOM! New mothers from those who are supposed to have a better idea of exactly what to do in every situation.
(Kind of. Maybe. Don’t worry, I am enjoying making it up as I go along.)
Sage, you are one of the most remarkable kids here or anywhere and I say that with only 67% bias. The questions you ask blow me away; you must have inherited your Grandma’s mind for Socratic thinking:
Do bad guys know they’re bad guys or do they think that they’re good guys and we’re the bad guys?
You challenge me in the best possible ways. You blow me away with your love for reading and drawing and remembering every single Harry Potter character in the book even when I can’t, and doing headstands on the couch. Your hugs can bring me to my knees. Your crazy “Dynamite” dance should go viral. You eat broccoli saying you don’t like it, but you eat it anyway. You stir the pancake batter with so much care. You have thoughts, interests, stubborn demands and exceedingly kind gestures that are entirely your own.The cats now like you more than they are terrified by you.
And yes, you make me grateful for Wikipedia.
You also have a sister who loves you so much, that the first thing she did this morning was scamper to the kitchen to make you cinnamon toast in bed. I don’t even mind sleeping on the crumbs.
I’m so glad you have each other. And I’m so glad I have you.
In the past six years, you found your smile. It radiates from the inside. It warms anyone within its radius. It is irresistible and it is exquisite. And so are you.
Happy birthday my beautiful Sage. My beautiful six year-old. Oh God, how did that happen again?