A Boy and His Dinosaur

Today, you turned four years old. Four. Way past babyhood and just a few very assertive steps (re: Year of the Tantrum) out of toddlerness.

You are officially a Kid.

And you prove that everyday. Just a few months ago, you used to "womb"; you'd cling to my leg when we entered your classroom, burrow your head when you met new people, and go grinning catatonic when someone asked you a question. But now, you boldly order your own chocolate milk (obviously free of my socially debilitating shyness), rush to play with your friends with nary a glance back at mama, crack jokes, and even cop a little sass now and then.

You just don't need me as much anymore. I mean, I'm no longer a food source. You can do your bathroom duties pretty much on your own. You can even roll your own sushi. And I have to admit, because I'm all about the admitting here, that it stings. But just like when you get booboes, it only hurts for a little bit. You tear up a little, complain a little, maybe whine a little. I offer to apply a little mommy magic, to kiss the hurt away for you. More and more often you decline and just go straight for the Incredible band-aid, because you understand that it's a part of the game, that it will only hurt for a little bit, that the pain goes away and you come out of it with a killer bruise and story. You come out of it a little stronger.

(Or maybe you're just after the sticker?)

And you've certainly given me plenty of stories over the past year (remember the box?)--and plenty of not so metaphorical bruises. But even the figurative bruises ain't so bad, because I'm starting to see what happens on the other side.

As you let go of my hand or my leg, you start to work your way through your little piece of the world. And I love to watch you weigh it, consider it, laugh at it, stomp it, or save it from an aggressive bird.

And then I love to see you come running back to grab my hand and show me what you've found.