Dear Jack,

You're four and one twelfth now. There's a term used to describe rigorous training and I think it applies to our last month: you've been putting me through my paces. Age four has brought a few terrific things and a whole lot of weariness. I decided tonight as we tried unsuccessfully to take an evening walk in our new, wonderful, so very walkable neighborhood that you just can't hang for a whole day. Though you get plenty of sleep in terms of hours, it's most often interrupted, fitful, or simply incomplete due to an early wake up. You won't nap, so we can forget about making up for a deficit during the day. So, despite the fact that you are often fun and delightful throughout the day, you have a witching hour from about six to seven p.m. and there really is not a thing that can please you.

Except ice cream. I bet ice cream would work.

Well, it's all developmentally appropriate, called for by experts and the outward symptomology of some really important intellectual growth, yada, yada, yada. The problem is that I have a witching hour, too. It basically coincides with yours and we're no good together these days. Our recent move has you clinging pretty close to me, casting an ironic light on my worries about us appropriately attaching after your difficult birth. Ha! I laugh at you, new mama Katy, worried about the wrong things.

The stressful move I alluded to in your last letter was about to get a whole lot more stressful and costly. They say all's well that ends well, and I suppose that is true, but some of it is still raw. Again with my expectations and my fractured reality. Perhaps I'll learn one day. We live in our new house and it is lovely and one day we will be able to afford furniture and pretty plants for the yard.

Speaking of fractures, your cast was sawed off today! Apparently you saved all your crying and complaining over the last four weeks for that moment. You giggled at first as the saw vibrated your arm, but you freaked out when the air hit your skin. I've never had a cast, but I think I know what that sensation is like. Unsettling, at least. I was excited about free arm day, but the doctor thought that though your break has healed, it's too new to take a chance and we'll do a splint and bandages for two more weeks. I'm so ready to move on, kid, but you're okay with it so I have to be okay, too.

You're still calling me "Mim," all the time. I have to admit that I love it. It's different, it's weird, and it's you. You matter-of-factly said this the other day, "Mim, don't you know I always keep track of you?" That's particularly true these days, with the new house and its levels. You want me to stay on the same floor as you. It's cute and it's annoying. Real talk.

Every ten minutes or so you tell me you love me. A recent favorite is "Mim, you're the most most most most most most most most best." Most best? I'll take it.

A very different Jack will be reading this letter one day, so my apologies here may be unneccessary, or even silly, but I feel like I need to say I'm sorry. I am struggling to figure out how to be your mom in this season, and I get it wrong a lot. I know I do, and those moments sting. Sometimes I feel like you are telling me you love me all the time because you need reassurance and that thought is too much. You know I love you but I want to make sure you feel it, even when my anger or fatigue take over my ability to be peaceful. It's work, it's work, it's work. It's my main gig right now and I feel lousy at it.

This too shall pass, I know, and quickly, taking with it some of the great things about now - your sweetness, over-the-top enthusiasm about pedestrian things, your precious baby cheeks.

I will try to slow down to enjoy those fleeting things a little more. I will choose peace as often as I can.

I couldn't love you more, kid, paces and all.

Mim

p.s. We are petsitting, Gillie until school starts back. It's been pretty fun and you've helped me take care of her. Good things.