And now you are FOUR!

Dear Jordan,

For weeks now, when people have asked you how old you are, you have enthusiastically responded, "Free! And then I'm going to be FOUR, and then I'm going to be FIVE!"

(And I have thought, oh, to be in the hurry-up years! Because leading up to my birthday, I certainly wasn't saying, "Forty-three! And then I'm going to be FORTY-FOUR and then I'm going to be FORTY-FIVE!)

But back to you, my sweet love.

You've said these words with so much gusto, and with the proffering of the appropriate number of fingers - FOUR! - and the whole hand - FIVE! - which almost knocked you over over every time.

But now, now you are FOUR.

You are my first born, the one who made me a mama. You are charming and lovely and hilarious. And sweet. Boy howdy, are you sweet.

Your sister follows you around, and wants to be everywhere you are and do everything you do. She wants to hold whatever you are holding, play with whatever you are playing with, and eat what you are eating. Right off your plate.

When you see her coming, you gather up your things and get all panicky. She will walk over and grab and shove. This, understandably, upsets you no end.

I want to tell you to just haul off and whack her, but it seems inappropriate.

The other day she was pushing or pulling you - I can't remember which. You started to shriek, and I finally cracked. I said, "You're bigger than her! Just shove her!"

And you replied, "But Mama! I'll hurt her!"

Today, however, I saw you fighting back. I see this as a positive.

You refer to her as your baby. As in, "My baby and I like to eat waffles."

She drives you pure up the wall, but you also love her tremendously, and you don't want her left out of anything. But she does need to stay the fuck away from your Lego. And your cement mixer. Oh, and your crane.

You still love all things construction, and you are quick to correct when I refer to an excavator as a backhoe. It was a word I did not know until you learned it. And now they're all backhoes to me.

You and Daddy once got caught in the rain and had dinner at the bar at the Hilton, and now sometimes, when you're not interested in what's for dinner, you'll turn to him and say, "Why don't we have dinner at the bar at the Hilton?"

It sounds bad, my friend.

You are so kind and loving. You're effusive. You make proclamations like, "I really enjoyed that!" and "That would be just perfect!"

You love your mama and your daddy and your baby and your nana.

You love waffles, Oreos, and cupcakes. You love mac and cheese and grilled cheese, even though you hate cheese. You love McDonalds' Happy Meals. And milkshakes. Except when they're too cold.

You love cars and trucks and the aforementioned construction equipment. You adore monster trucks. You love Mater and, as you call him, Lightening LaQueen (as my friend Jeanne says, "a true drag car.")

You still have a slight lisp, and you pronounce many words with a New York accent. And lisp. For example, "cars" is pronounced "cwaath."

It is charming. We do not know where this comes from.

You love your purple crocs - which you chose - and truck and car and bulldozer shirts and the pink hat with the butterflies.

You love rocks and sand and you would dig all day if you could. You love spraying the hose on the deck with Nana. You absolutely insist on being naked for this activity. When we have company and are sitting out back you keep your clothes on as long as you can, and then you hit a point where you can bear it no longer.

I take it as a sign that you are very European. Naturally, I'm in favor.

You have always loved books, and now that you watch videos, you love Bob the Builder, and Curious George, and Fireman Sam, even though they have those Welsh accents.

You are my lovely lovely boy.

I realized this past weekend when I met so many of your dad's camp friends, many of whom he has known since he was maybe 11 or 12, how fast you will grow up and away from us. I need to savor these times. I need to embrace the fact that you still want me to kiss your knee when you bump it, and you believe that makes it better.

You are four. I mean, FOUR! (Too soon you will be FIVE!)

And I love you more than sunshine.

Love love love,

Mama