Sliding Into Six

I debated whether or not to write you a letter this year. I felt like everything I wrote last year still holds true, and I felt like I didn't have anything to add because you really haven't changed much over the past year. But then something happened a few weeks ago that made me realize I was wrong.

A few Sunday afternoons ago, somebody in our house needed to go to the grocery store, but I was still in my pajamas (Don't judge me), so I didn't want to go, and the final round of the Masters was getting ready to start, so I knew Daddy didn't want to go either. That's when I suggested I could call you an Uber, and you could go to Publix for us. Our conversation went a little something like this:

Me: Hey, Jack, maybe I could call you an Uber, you can go get the groceries, and then the Uber will bring you back home.

You: Mama, I can't read all that stuff.

Me: Sure you can! And what you can't read, you can recognize. I know you know how to find the applesauce and the Velveeta Shells and Cheese.

You: You're going to go to jail if you send me by myself.

Me: Are you saying I'll get to sit in a quiet cell and not have to clean the house? Yeah, I think I'll survive.

You: You won't be able to read books in jail.

Me: Actually, that's about the only thing I will be able to do in jail. Jails usually have really good libraries. (Please note, my extensive knowledge of prison libraries stems solely from Shawshank Redemption.)

You (with a knowing twinkle in your eye): Yeah, well, you would miss my snuggles.

Boom . . . you got me! You were so right, I would miss your snuggles terribly.

This conversation, while a little unrealistic, did make me realize one thing: you truly have grown up over the past year, and to be honest, I'm not sure I'm okay with that.

What happened to my little roly poly toddler who usually came home with his shoes on the wrong feet, who only wanted to color things blue, and who always wanted to watch Chuggington?

Granted, some things haven't changed. You still wake up at the crack of dawn, ready to ask a gagillion questions and shoot some hoops. And Daddy and I still love to hear you giggle over physical comedy, like when Kung Fu Panda gets knocked in the head. And (sadly) you're still a Gamecock, no matter how much I try to turn you into a Tiger. But in so many other ways, you're a completely different kid.

You have taken on a new independence that is both exciting and heartbreaking. While I love the freedom that comes with being able to simply tell you to go get dressed, I wonder who this kid is who comes out of your room in head-to-toe Under Armor? Where did he hide his super soft onesies and smocked Jon Jons?

It's also a big help that you can buckle yourself into your car seat all by yourself. It warms my heart to see your compassion towards Reeves, patiently teaching him how to buckle his straps and lending a helping hand when he gets stuck. The hard part is, as I watch you buckle up, my mind flashes ahead, and I picture you buckling your seat belt behind the wheel and driving away all by yourself. That's when I start to panic, begging time to put on the brakes.

It has been truly amazing to see how much you've learned at school this year. I don't think I knew as much when I was 6 as you do now. I mean, you're even starting to master multiplication, something I still really have to think about. The 7's were always the hardest ones for me, but you make them seem easy breezy. In my defense, I didn't watch as much football as you do! I want you to know how proud I am of your curiosity and your love of learning. What scares me, though, is the knowledge that pretty soon, you'll surpass me. You'll be all into calculus and statistics, and you may not think I'm as smart then as you do now. Will you still ask me questions and come to me for help?

I know it isn't fair, my desire for time to stand still. I don't mean to hold you back or limit your possibilities. I really do love watching you grow into your own person, but you have to remember, you'll always be my baby. When you were born, you came out with some of my DNA, but the truth is, you came out with even more of my heart.

Now when I tuck you in, I may not be able to rock rock you like I used to because you're all arms and legs, and you may read to me just as much as I read to you. Just know, as long as we're in the same place, I'll still come back to check on you before I go to bed every night, no matter how old you are. And regardless of the miles between us, I'll always be praying for God to watch over you in all that you do.

I love you, Bud. Happy birthday!