Five

It was the day before his birthday and he tapped my arm to wake me. As I peered over the edge of the bed, still groggy, my eyes met my boy's worried expression. "What's the matter?" I whispered.

"I don't want to be five," he whispered back.

I stroked his head as he rested it on my other arm. "Why don't you want to turn five, Babe?"

He raised his head and sniffled, "I wish five wasn't in the numbers. It's too hard to write!"

I probed some more because I sensed there was more to it than just the fact that this strange and crooked number was difficult for my son to print. He mentioned that he was scared to become like a boy he knows who is five, but I'm still not sure we got to the bottom of it.

Thankfully, come January third, that boy hopped out of bed, ready to begin a day full of surprises, balloons and plenty of attention. He proudly held out five fingers to whoever asked, and he mentioned to me later that being five was just fine with him :)

Oliver, you make everyone older than you in this family, happy. We love to watch you play, listen to your stories with mixed-up words, and we love your passion for justice. Happy Birthday, Big Boy!