A letter to my son

Dear Landis,

Today you're four. And I can't believe it. I'm not sure how all that time has passed -- how you've gone from infant to full-fledged little boy in what seems like the blink of an eye. But full-fledged little boy you are, as proven by the fact that when I hold you in my arms and rock you, you are all arms and legs hanging off my lap in various directions. Yes, I still rock you. I do it because you love it. And for the record, so do I. I love the cuddly little bundle that you are when we sit on the back porch just before bed-time, you smelling of ivory soap, wrapped in blankets and soft in your pj's, snuggled in my lap as we rock slowly back and forth and wait for the stars to come out. I love the awe and excitement you express when you see the very first one winking at us, twinkling faintly in the dusky sky, and the sweetness of your wish when you say the words "star light, star bright...... first star I see tonight.....". Those are the times when I wish you could stay small enough to fit in my lap forever.

In some ways it seems completely appropriate that you are four -- that it's about freakin' time you turn four, since you've seemed older than your years for so long. It's not just that you are so tall, but that you are extremely coordinated, and whip-smart too. All of which causes people to ask me things like "Why isn't Landis in Kindergarten this year?" And when I reply with the appropriate answer - "Well, because he's only 3" - they practically fall over and say something along the lines of "3!?!?! He's only 3!?!?!". It's the same response you'll get your entire life when you explain to curious folks what your age and/or height actually is. And I know that your father is sorry he passed his enormous height genes on to you because the world is not built for extremely tall people. And I know he grows weary of answering the same questions over and over and over again about whether or not he played basketball, and just exactly how tall he is, watching people have the same responses time and time again. I can see already that it's going to play out the same way for you too, so I hope you have been blessed with patience and a good sense of humour. Or at least that your sense of humour develops beyond:
"Old MacDonald had a farm!
E - I -E - I - Ohhhhhhh!
And on his farm he had some POOP!
E - I - E -I - Ohhhhhh!
With a poop poop here and a poop poop there!
Here a Poop! There a Poop! Everywhere a POOP POOOOOOP!!
Old MacDonald had a farm!
E - I - E - I - POOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!"
Which sometimes I think will be the death of me.

When I asked you what you wanted for your birthday this year -- knowing full well that the teeny trike you've been riding for months without complaint is so small that it jams your knees up into your chin -- I was beside myself with excitement. I knew without a doubt that a bike was exactly what you'd ask for, and we were poised to deliver. You paused and gave it some serious consideration. Then you decided that what you really, really wanted more than anything else for your birthday, was jelly beans on your cake. And the simplicity and innocence of your birthday desires made me want to hug you, if, for no other reason than maybe some of that could rub off on me.

Your June birthday makes you a Gemini. And even if I'd never believed in the accuracy of zodiac signs before, having you would have converted me. The way you swing effortlessly between your cotton-candy sweetness and your devil-may-care attitude is impressive, if not completely exasperating. I often wonder how a boy so sweet and gentle and caring can at the same time be so stubborn and willfull, without the slightest desire to please anyone but himself. You didn't get that from me. And as much as that trait makes me want to pull my hair out by the roots, I respect you for it. You are not easily emotionally manipulated, and I hope that when you are an adult you learn to use that trait in a positive and productive way. It is, after all, a strength. Your brother, he's a "pleaser", and I have to admit that I supplied that genetic material. We (he and I) care an awful lot about what other people think, and what other people say, and how other people feel. And I'm not saying that's a bad thing. That trait too, is a strength, for as many reasons as it is a weakness. It's just that you seem to have been born with an innate ability to act on a principle that has taken me 34 years to implement: That sometimes you have to be true to you, without any regard for what other people think, or say, or try to make you feel guilty about.

Your imaginary world is a lively one, and I love to watch you and listen in on the conversations you have when you don't know I'm paying attention. I enjoy the make-believe friends who join us for entertaining dinnertime chatter in the form of your hand-puppets -- each character with it's own voice and mannerisms. You have a fantastic memory, and can remember things I had no idea you'd absorbed. I played a KD Lang CD in the car the other day, and yesterday I heard you singing the words as you were digging around in the fridge. I'm pretty sure you'd only heard that particular song once. And it's because you were exposed to "Ren and Stimpy" at a young age, that you tell me endless stories of why it's important to brush your teeth so that the Tooth Beaver doesn't come chew on your nerve endings and make your teeth fall out. You're quite matter-of-fact about it, and since your brother has lost two teeth and gotten handsomely rewarded for it, I know you believe as whole-heartedly in the Tooth Beaver as you do the Tooth Fairy. (Though, due again to Ren and Stimpy, I'm pretty sure you think the tooth fairy is an old, bearded, balding man in a pink Tu-Tu.) Like I said, your imagination is extremely lively.

Tucking you into bed at night is one of my favorite times of the day, mostly because you're such a cuddler. You snuggle up against me, place your hand softly on my cheek and sigh deeply as you settle in for the night. We talk in whispers, sharing the parts of our day that we liked best, and eventually I tell you to sleep tight. You tell me not to let the bed-bugs bite. And as I get up to leave your room, you always ask for one more hug and kiss. I gladly oblige, and usually that's just exactly what I get: one more hug, one more kiss. But not always. Sometimes, just as I am about to make contact, you turn my face sideways and lick my cheek. It's disgusting, but completely hysterical. And you do it infrequently enough that I fall for it every time.


And that's how it goes with you. You keep me on my toes because I'm never one hundred percent sure what I'm going to get. But regardless of the mood swings, and the face-licking, and the poopy jokes, there is one thing I am one hundred percent sure about: I'm so proud of the little boy that you are, and the person you are growing up to be. And I hope you have a wonderful birthday.

I love you,

Mom