When Eli's first birthday was approaching, I remember distinctly feeling as though I'd reached the end of something. It had been a grueling marathon of a year, and I was approaching the finish line. My baby was no longer a baby. The scary part was over.
What I didn't realize then, of course, is that the scariest part of parenting is that the scary part is never over. Just last week after Eli had already gone to bed I read that Ari Schultz, a 5-year-old heart transplant patient whom I've
followed for years on Facebook, had died. I stumbled into Eli's room, sobbing, just to watch his chest rise and fall, taking back every uncharitable thought I'd ever had about him.
Now, as Eli approaches his fifth birthday, what still surprises me is how every day he feels more and more like a
person, more fully realized and fully formed, as if he's been blurred around the edges all this time and every day comes a little bit more into focus. A few weeks ago, for instance, I decided to try Mad Libs Junior with him and he laughed uproariously at the final product. It felt thrilling, like I had unlocked a whole new level of childhood:
a kid who gets Mad Libs! This past weekend, I went for a run on the beach and when I got back, Eli asked, "Mama, how was your run?"It felt like such a tiny, precious moment of humanity to have my child show a passing interest in something that's important to me.
It's possible that I'm just a person who's better suited to parenting a 5-year-old than I was a baby or a toddler. I loved Eli's baby rolls and squishy, kissable cheeks (they're still kissable. I check every day), but I rarely feel that pang of "Stop growing so fast!" that everyone around me seems to feel. I love reading the Magic Tree House books with him at bedtime instead of "Trains Go." I love watching his confidence grow as he strides into the ocean and demands, "Don't hold onto me! I can tread water!" I love that I can sign him up for two different mini-camps after regular camp has ended without having to worry about how he'll adjust to all the transitions, because I know he'll be just fine.
(I do
not love listening to the song "
Rolex" for the millionth time, which he learned on the camp bus and now asks Alexa to play for us a dozen times a day.)
A few weeks ago, we were at the beach with friends when Eli noticed a little girl nearby wearing a puddle jumper. When she took it off he marched himself over to her family and asked, "Can I try it?" The next thing I knew, we were in the ocean. And not for the first time, I looked at him and thought,
Who are you?! I never would have asked a strange family for their daughter's puddle jumper; I would have been too shy. And I never would have made a beeline for the deep ocean waves; I would have been too scared.
But that's my Eli: bolder and more daring than I ever was, equally loudmouthed but probably with more sass and charm. When his camp counselors talk about him, they say that he has a "big personality" (but I mean, so does Donald Trump, right?) and that he basically questions every decision they make (I feel you, camp counselors). A few weeks into camp, I got a message from a counselor asking me to speak to Eli at home about "making safer choices." In the 15 or so years that I attended school, this is not the kind of phone call my parents ever received about me.
Next month Eli will start kindergarten, and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't concerned about how he'll fare. It seems to come with so many rules and expectations, which I'm sure Eli will do his best to test and bend and challenge. When I was in elementary school, I worshipped my teachers unquestioningly and thoroughly enjoyed doing my homework. It's hard for me to imagine this will be the case for Eli.
And that's been and continues to be one of the most challenging, complicated, intricate things about parenting for me: learning to be the parent of the kind of kid I have instead of the kind of kid I was or the kind of kid I expected to have.
This morning, the camp bus was late and Eli, who does not like waiting, was having a bit of a meltdown on the sidewalk behind our building. He chastised me for my own irritation while he spun in circles around me and stepped on my feet. "Help me!" he demanded angrily. I said, "Eli, I don't know what you want me to do."
"Just do something!" he yelled. So I bent down and scooped him up (thank you weightlifting). He relaxed instantly, his head cradled against my shoulder, and then he started kissing me on the cheek. It was sort of a perfect encapsulation of who Eli is: demanding and uncompromising, impatient and assertive, self-aware and all in service of wanting to receive love and attention and loyalty and give it fiercely in return.
I just finished binge-watching all five seasons of
Friday Night Lights, and the rallying cry of the Dillon Panthers — "Clear eyes, full hearts, can't lose!" — feels especially apt. I see my son clearly, and my heart is certainly full. Happy birthday, my bold and brilliant boy.
