Dear Eli,
A few weeks ago, you ran your first 400-meter race. When the woman with the bullhorn announced it was time to line up, you waved cheerily and called out, "Bye!" as you hustled to the starting line. When the race started, you surged ahead with confidence. But 400 meters is a long way, and as you rounded the curve of the track your eyes took in how much farther you had to go and how many bigger and faster kids were already way in front of you. Your shoulders slumped forward in defeat.
I could tell what you were thinking, because you are that kid who throws tantrums by flinging himself to the floor and refusing to move, so I hastened across the track to you and shouted some encouraging words — Come on, you got this — and you started to move again, hesitantly this time, like you weren't really sure you were committed to making it to the finish. I tried to talk to you not like a mom but like a coach: You have the strength, you have the power, and you're going to go all the way!
Just before the end of the straightaway, your face changed. Suddenly there was a hunger in it, a determination I hadn't seen before in you. It said, I have the power. It said, I got this.
And you did.
I'm telling this story because next week you'll be 4 years old (in fact, you ask me every day, "Is it today? Is today my birthday?"), and I can't think of a better way to express the kind of kid you are. All at once you are confident and despondent, determined and powerful, independent and craving support.
You've had an incredible year. You finally ditched your pacifier. You sat through your first full bigscreen movie and your first family Shabbat service. You rode through the haunted house at Adventureland for the first time and tasted your first s'more. You had your first sleepover at Grandma and Grandpa's and your first dropoff at the magical kids' play area in IKEA. You wrote your name for the first time.
You weren't all that affectionate as a baby, but this year you've started to reward my patience with sweet kisses and hugs. Every night we read together before bedtime and you nestle in close to me. Sometimes you stroke my cheek the way I used to stroke yours when you were small and I understand the meaning of the phrase "my heart melted."
Superheroes are your latest infatuation. You want to wear your Avengers T-shirt at all times (if it's not available, Captain America or Spider-Man or Ninja Turtles will do). You've developed some pretty kickass solitary pretend play skills that usually involve angry-sounding fights breaking out between various superheroes ("I said, no, you can't eat all the donuts! Yes I can!") or loud car crashes in our living room. You love "swordfighting" with Daddy, who swears he's taking you for fencing lessons as soon as you turn 4.
You love listening to audiobooks, especially Frog and Toad. When the Audible announcer says, "Audible: Audio that speaks to you wherever you are," you usually answer her back: "I'm in Forest Hills" or "I'm in my car," you say, and I crack up because it's so cute.
You are a summer kid through and through. You detest the frigid winter wind, and although you tolerated playing in the snow for about a half-hour longer than last year, it's apparent that summer is your spirit season. When we're at the beach, you're the happiest I've ever seen you, and you've never been in a pool you ever wanted to get out of.
You continue to rise at a painfully early hour and immediately request dairy products: cheese, yogurt, milk. You're partial to Danimals smoothies that you call "Dr. Dennis" for no reason we can discern. In your world the food groups are made up almost exclusively of different types of cheese: square cheese and string cheese, shredded cheese and powdered cheese, goat cheese and melted cheese.
This fall you'll start pre-K, and I'm a little nervous about how you'll fare in the world of academics. Recently you asked me, "When I go to pre-K, is it going to be fun stuff, or is it going to be just boring writing?" You've got a rebellious streak, and your teacher tells me she speaks with you quite a bit about "making good choices," which everyone knows is a school euphemism for "not being a pain in the ass."
But you're also wickedly smart and funny. You love being in charge, and I hope that teachers who really get you will channel that energy into leadership. Your teacher always told me that she knew to keep you very busy and give you lots of jobs to do.
I read an article recently about how our personalities tend to remain the same from the time we are babies. When you were a baby I thought, What personality? But now it makes sense: You are still loud and restless and demanding. You still love to laugh and crave independence and always manage to do things in your own unique way.
I'm going to say something hard and honest: It doesn't feel easy for me to be your mommy. But I don't think it's supposed to be. You challenge me every day to see and explain things differently. You frustrate me and you make me proud, sometimes in quick succession. You are a human in progress, and you are the best thing I have ever done.
Love,
Mommy
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