Dear Jack,

You're 45 months old now. 3 3/4, as it were. You're heavier, taller, and smarter than you were last I wrote. These things are always true, but maybe moreso now. You weigh around 40 lbs and you're around 40 inches tall. You were just shy of the the mark for a carnival ride at Michelin's Easter egg hunt this year, but only just - next year you'll easily exceed the height requirement. You're just a big kid now - there is still some baby chub on your face and you have a poky belly, but I've caught glimpses of you in the rearview mirror, or surreptitiously from your doorway while you play. The boy I see is growing up. I see the teenager you. I'm starting to see the man. Gulp. Blink.



For a couple of months now, you've become this ball of affection. You tell me all the time that you love me. You say I'm your best friend. You said "you're the best girl, Mama."

Swoon.

I was sick last month and told you that I couldn't give you kisses for a little while. You complied and stayed well. One morning, however, you asked, "Mom, is your pants sick?" When I replied no, you kissed my leg. All of this stuff about moms and sons is true, apparently, and I already feel a little mother-in-lawy when I think about a girl being good enough for you. She isn't. Ha!



Warmer days are here, and we've been enjoying time outside as a family. Your mom may have a touch of seasonal affective disorder. I can't adequately describe the little stream of joy that breaks open in me at the first sign of spring. It's easier to mother you when winter's over. Truth. I'm ready to say goodbye to ice on the the windshield (even though you call it "frosting" and love to draw in it), bulky coats, and too much time indoors. I'm glad you got a chance to play in the snow, but I'm even happier that there are buds on your climbing tree.

We're taking a real family vacation for your first official spring break soon. I'm a little anxious about all the time we'll spend in the car, but moreso excited about all the things you'll see (fossils! rocketships! modern art! monuments!). I can't wait to share the wonder with you.

Last weekend, your dad shaved his head for St. Baldricks. He's a copycat. Just kidding! I was so proud of him for raising nearly $1300 and shaving his head to support research to fight children's cancer. He gave blood afterward, too. I loved explaining to you about what Daddy was doing that day. Will you grow up thinking that stuff is normal? Will you be on that stage in a few years going bald? The thought of that makes me smile. You took the changes in stride, even though you asked your dad to "put the fur back" on his face when he shaved the beard.



There is always so much I feel I'm missing when I write these letters - like these broad strokes won't give you the clear picture of yourself at almost four that I hope to convey. On the other hand, I know that this is as much a gift to me as it is to grown-up you. What has happened in your short time here is already blurry for me. How does it happen? The joy and sorrow are so acute - in the moment it's nearly impossible to imagine ever forgetting. But we do. I do.

I love the baby I remember - the blurry one who brought me so much joy and kept me from sleeping. I love the boy I know now, the crystal clear, stalwart, sweet son of mine - growing in empathy, learning to forgive, developing a sense of self, taking part in the beautiful struggle of living alongside other people.

I am the grateful witness,

Mama