The Big Kid Myth

My son turned five recently, an occasion for the history books. In life, most years pass with little fanfare. But some - some precious few years - mean something.

Five is one of those years. Little Man knew this intuitively; he asked me tonight, "Mommy, did you make Special Sauce for me back when I was four, or just when I was five?"*

When curious strangers discover my son's age, they ask about kindergarten and teachers and schools. Strangers want to know whether my son can read or spell his name. I laugh and tell Strangers that Little Man can read and write, but his birthday made him too young for kindergarten. And inside I think:

How did this child come to be five, anyway? Five: The year when people don't ask about binkies and sleeping through the night, but reading and writing. I promise you, this was last Saturday:

And this . . . this was tonight.

Before my mama heart breaks in half, I comfort myself; Five-Year-Olds still wear Superman pajamas. And when they're feeling a little cruddy, they still show up on the couch, where they still fit just right snuggled into Daddy's arms.

So for now, I'm not believing the hype about Big Kids. As long as I can still fit my arms around his neck, he'll be my Little Man.

Even when he's taller than me next week.

*Special Sauce Exclusive Recipe: Mix mayonnaise and barbecue sauce. Voila! ;) 

-Becki