Dear Cole,
Today you are four. One. Two. Three. Four…..My sadness mourning my baby gone can only be matched by the joy and happiness I feel watching you grow into an inquisitive, life-loving boy.
There are days where I still can’t believe you exist. It’s been four years and I sort of figured I would be used to you by now. Sometimes when I pick you up from school there is a moment where I pull up into the pick up lane and think “Did I really have a child? Is he here? It wasn’t just a very long dream?” And then you appear…running down the sidewalk with your too-big back pack swinging back and forth, you have new scrapes on your knees, a half-eaten sandwich in your lunchbox and a Ziploc bag full of homemade Play-Doh….yes, there you are. I remember you now.
Your inquisitiveness is profound. You have a question for everything. ”Mommy, who ____? Mommy, what____? Mommy, why____?” Most recently you asked, “Mommy, where does the moon go when the sun comes out?” There are days when I try to give you the best answer possible, but usually my answer is just going to lead to 1,000 more questions, so I try to keep it simple. This time I told you that the moon sleeps when the sun is out. Of course later that afternoon while the sun was still out, the moon reappeared. You excitedly pointed it out my enormous error and asked me “Why is the moon out when the sun is shining?” Followed by, “Is he going to get in trouble for getting out of bed?” Trying to keep myself from laughing hysterically, I told you I would Google it. You looked up at me, tilted your head to the side and said, “Mommy, what’s Google?”
According to Wikipedia, the term “fore” when called out during a game of golf means to “look ahead” but I don’t really want to do that. Instead I look at you. I look at your sister, your father, our family and when I’m not doing that I look back upon milestones and moments and memories of the last four years, because they are what matter. You may not remember the night we let you stay up entirely too late so you could play with the neighbors and catch lightning bugs for the first time, but we will.
Although you’re no longer my baby (and outright refuse to be acknowledged as such), I just thought that you should know that you always will be–Even when you grow so tall that I have to stand on my toes to kiss your face. You’ll always be my first, Cole. My baby. Thank you for reminding me that anything is possible. That the moon is something to question. That time is short and life is long and there are so many things to be grateful for. Number one, being you.
All the Love in the Universe.
Mommy
P.S. I overheard the older boy down the street saying that you went to “first base” with Avery the other day. I have three things to say to this…
1. The only thing first base should mean to you is the white bag you run to in baseball.
2. You are too young. Please at least wait till you’re 5.
3. I’m pretty sure your father is going to double fist pump when he reads this.
