Today you are four. I'd like to pretend I'm stunned you've already been on the earth for FOUR YEARS and my baaaaayyyyybeee, but you've acted six since you were two and at four you're more twelve than should be allowed by law. Four?! How can you only be four? This must be some kind of error. You are clearly fourteen.
And yet, how can it have been four entire freaking years since the day we met you, and you were a mewling little useless lump of baby and I was a hot mess deep in the trenches in need of a hobby?
I have never wished that I could stop time at any age and trap you there for a while. Each step of the way there's been something good waiting for us just over the horizon and I can't seem to bring myself to be sad about moving forward. This is good. More good things are coming.
I look forward to a never ending list of things we get to do together, which I cross things off of and add to daily. I look forward to eating dinner with you tonight, and picking you up and hearing about your day. I look forward to forcing you to listen to more dubstep which you claim is the highest form of torture but doesn't keep you from dancing when no one is looking. I look forward to showing you Deep Blue Sea. I look forward to teenage you with an anticipation that probably verges on inappropriate, sour face fights and all. Is that strange? I genuinely believe it's going to be so great. You're the best person I know.
You are a delight to take on any new adventure, fearless and eager, and on a good day there is no one I would rather hang out with. (On a bad day there is no one I would rather fight with, or silently ignore while we mutually lament our lack of a better day.)
I'm excited about the promise of four. Can I say that? FOUUUUR. This little tail end of three has been challenging. It has been our best and most exciting summer ever, punctuated with little moments of ASDFGHJK KILL YOU. Your brain is growing so much so fast that sometimes it goes completely haywire and you just wig out. But four is new. Four is seven. Four is twelve. New doors will open. You will probably still be a willful butthole, but what fun we have in between all those times!
(Please note: You are really fun. I like it. I want more. I also want you to stay at least 30 yards away from me at all times AND LISTEN TO YOUR MOTHER AND STOP THROWING THINGS INSIDE THE HOUSE.)
(I mean, I expect nothing less, but it does fray one's nerves after a while. I expect this to stop before and/or after the age of 30, possibly or probably not. I wouldn't trade you for ten boring kids in tall white socks who would do their own laundry if they paid me, so I suppose it's all rather irrelevant in the end.)
You remind me of dad in the way where you prefer to keep your multitude of emotions well under cover. You have never been prone to displays of affection, for the same reason that this is not and will never be a love letter. Regardless, emoting something other than extreme anger and BAM MARGERA!!!!!!!!!!!!! is probably something you should consider in the future. Based on these cues I can only assume that you sort of like me, or hate me, I don't know? Anyway we're madly in love. It's confusing. Let me know.
We've come a long way, kid. Happy birthday.
all my love,