caleb is four

Dear Caleb,

The other day I found myself browsing through old photographs of you. You've grown so tall and your features so chiseled that I'd all but forgotten what you were like only a year or two ago. Today you are four years old, and perhaps because you have matured in your looks and abilities, you sometimes seem much older to me. The look, however, of playful mischief that is forever lighting your eyes serves as a reminder that you are very much still my little boy.

Your personality has not changed much since you were born. You are still, and probably always will be, stubbornly deliberate -- a trait that I know will serve you well if you can learn to harness it for good. But for now it manifests itself in always wanting to drink from the pink cup, in layering your blankets in an oddly specific way at bedtime, and insisting on opening the heavy doors in our lobby whenever we go out. Overall you don't ask for much, but you firmly insist on the little things you do want.

You are ever my defiant child, the product, no doubt, of your placement in the middle. You do, though, try so hard to be good. Each prayer you offer includes the lines, "And help me not hit and not bother anyone every day." And, more often than I tend to give you credit for, you are delightfully thoughtful and sincere, thinking of others before you think of yourself. Oh, and let's not forget how polite you've become lately. I love how you squeeze in all of the "magic words" in your requests for something: "Please, Mom...okay, thank you welcome!" It's very, very sweet.

Some of the quirky things I love about you right now are your observant sharp eyes (which you fine tune by devouring Where's Waldo and I Spy books), your sometimes indecipherable speech (which I will be sad to see fade away as you begin speech therapy next month), and your entourage of dollies (which includes Bigger Baby, Little Baby, White Dolly, Bones Hundley Doggy Anderson, Elmo World, Tuggy/Nancy Beary, Blue's Clues, Magenta, and Woody) that go with you almost everywhere.

You're a goof who is adorably playful. Yesterday you asked in your warm, sugary voice, your honey-brown eyes pleading, "Mom, you play with me?" And how could I resist? So we sat down and played your new favorite game, Don't Eat Pete, just you and me. And I relished it.

Happy birthday, Baybo -- I mean Caleb! I know you may sometimes feel squished in the middle and sometimes forgotten, but you hold a very special place in my heart that would feel miserably empty if you weren't there to fill it. I love you.

Love,
Mom