Dear Naveen

A few nights ago as I was changing out of my work clothes, you sat on the bed and told me about your day. “Mommy, did you know that girls can marry girls and boys can marry boys if they want?” You actually said “Mommy, did you know that goals can may-wee goals” and I don’t mind telling you, the way you stumble on those R’s? FAVE.

I said, “Yes, I did know that. Are you going to marry a girl or a boy?”

“I’m going to marry a girl.” When asked why, you said “because boys smell like donkeys.”

And because it was just the two of us having a serious conversation and given your experience of boys (exhibit DEAGLAN and DAD), I  shrugged and agreed that it was likely a good thing to marry a girl because in general they do smell pretty good. You went on to tell me (for the third time this week) that you would have three sons named Leo (you ADORE this name!), Nathan and Mantartica (Yes Mantartica!) and all of them would also be named Matthew like you.

Your fourth year has been full of me and you moments like these. Me folding laundry, or perusing Pinterest. You hovering close by telling me your stories.

Things you learned at school.

Fun times you had with friends.

Injustices you have suffered at my hands (You gave him a bigger piece! You always cuddle with him longer! )

Hopes and dreams for the weekend.

And also the big plans for when you are a grown man (You, all three of your sons and the “goal you may-wee” will live with Dad and me. Forever!).

A funny thing happens to parents when they realize their last baby is no longer a baby. They start stalling, holding on for dear life. Their perceptions become impaired. Where others see a growing boy, fully self sufficient, these desperados are still dreaming of his once chubby thighs. 
They ask for things to be repeated just to hear the mispronunciation of a word. I said we read a polem (poemJ) Mommy, didn’t you hear me? A POLEM!!  
They smile at a potato chip remembering when it used to be a “pip”. 
They tell the same story over and over at the same gathering, laughing just as hard with each telling, blissfully unaware that the listener could recite it word-for-word from having heard it already on the other side of the room. Three times.

It has been like this for me.

I am smitten with you. Crazy in love.  And also on the brink of insanity every single day. You swoop onto my lap or into my arms with a fierce propriety any chance you get, but you also refuse to put on pants. EVERY WEEKDAY MORNING. YOU. JUST. REFUSE.

Your foray into school has been a complete success though...except see PANTS. You love the teachers, the required change in footgear at recess and adore your two best friends, Logan and Lawson.  

Which is all to say, four has been a good year. I was thinking about this yesterday.

At drop-off I whispered that I loved you a zillion billion times around the moon, the world and all the planets. In return, you gave me a pitiable smile, pecked me dutifully on the cheek and muttered,  I love you too.  And as an afterthought: Around our town and up the chimney, Then you demanded I roll up your pant cuffs and went off in search of your friends. 

I smiled all the way to work.  

Happy birthday my sweet, sweet heart. I am so blessed to be your Mom.

Your first ever school picture. Seriously. I can't even.

On the rock in the front yard yesterday morning. You're all about a good cuff on your jeans.

The spring harvest of my forty-fourth year

Last night the soccer season started for Deaglan again and as I watched him run for the ball, a blur of long lean limbs, dark hair and determination, I knew somewhere deep inside that there was nowhere else I’d rather be. It’s been one of the nicer aspects of meandering my way through my forties. I’m content to be where I am; my twenties and much of my thirties were not so peaceful. But now that I’m here, the harder times of those younger days are all a blur too. 

I watched the boys on the field and couldn’t believe they were all between 7 and 8. They appeared still small to me, their sweet baby faces breaking out in shy grins when they’d tame the ball and kick it to the intended destination, peering back over their shoulders to see their parents' delight.

It’s been a good spring so far, our first in this house. At least once a day Deaglan shakes his head and says: Mom can you believe there are pink and white trees out my window? Who ever heard of pink and white trees? I agree; it’s like harvest around here. We moved in during the high heat of last summer, when much of the lush green had withered, then tired and surrendered. But from this side, the early days of a highly anticipated spring, well it is such a treat, each of us exalting every flowery bloom and magically germinating branch.  

We’re taking it all in stride though; getting to each thing when we can. There’s a lot to do.

Open the pool.

Dust off the lawn furniture.

Plan a nearly five-year old’s birthday party.

Keep up with homework even though we’ve just about had it with reading logs and spelling tests.

Buy new flip-flops.

Track down the sunscreen.

Read a book in the quiet afternoon sun  - cold glass of Chardonnay nearby. 

I don't know for sure, but I may have a severe case of spring fever.

My friend Shannon gifted me this hibiscus plant over three years ago. Just when I think I've killed it with my awkward gardening ways, it rewards me with a bloom so beautiful I rethink everything.

This magnolia is one of my favourite things about our new front yard.

The pink and white trees out Deaglan's window.

Mother's Day paper flowers from my sweet guys.

I told my FB friends that we went fishing on Mother's Day (what else are you gonna do when you're surrounded by boys?). This was the result: each caught me a trout and Shaune barbecued them on a cedar plank and served with roasted peppers, onions and asparagus.

And this is the harvest of all those early years of parenting: watching one kid read to the other. Sigh.

 And speaking of spring blooms. This guy here will be five in a few short weeks. Five!!