Dear Jack,

You are 51 months old. It's silly to count in months now, but I'm doing it to keep track of how long we've been at this thing. 4 1/4? Maybe that's better. You seem taller these days and I can't help but get your hair cut short which makes you look about nine.

Today was picture day at school. I'm really excited to see how they turn out. Your grin is super cheesy these days and I won't be disappointed if it is documented for posterity in an 8x10 and 16 wallets. School is better. You still grumble a bit about going, but you seem to be hitting a stride and talking more effusively about things you do there. Mrs. Gantt told me at pickup last week that you were "very amusing." I can only imagine that you told her a tall tale or did some crazy rhymes. You're also getting much better about playing independently in our new house. Relief.

You continue to narrate everything in third person, past tense. Two blobs of play-doh have epic battles. They scream as they are smooshed through the fun factory. If we ask you "What did you say?" you get shy. I love that you have this rich (if a little violent, er, adventuresome) life in your mind, and I hope you never lose it. You may not like to draw or color, but you are one creative little guy.

We've met wonderful neighbors to share this part of the journey with and I'm so relieved that I can make good on the promises I made for more playing outside and more neighborhood friends. You're talking of our old house less and less. We're getting settled in, and starting to live here all the way. I love it.

It's a good season for me, too, learning how to set boundaries and involve myself in things I really care about and can do well. I want to keep this neighborhood a great place for you to grow up. I want to help your school succeed. I have a big space in my heart for people at the end of their lives. I'm learning how to minister with my presence. Slowly, I let go more and more of the need for approval. Peace with my disease as it stands comes in miniscule but real increments.

When my energy flags these days, I can and often do have these ugly, resentful thoughts about how I don't need to relive my childhood! I did it once! I don't want to play dinosaurs anymore! I yearn for siblings for you, and mourn the passing of the opportunity to nestle a bunch of babies close together. There is green, green grass there, around the big family I once imagined. I feel guilty that you won't have a brother-friend. At least not in the normal way. I grieve for friendships that will change when people we love move away.

And yet.

I'm certain that my energy would be flagging all the same if I were sitting at a desk (where the grass is also greener, of course) and I wouldn't have you to kiss me, or tell me a really bad joke, or sing for me, or beg me to play Legos and even though all of these things at some time or another represent a hard choice for me between lying down (which seems so very necessary) and getting my bones up to be with you, I am keenly aware that the choice itself is a blessing and the place I am is where I am to be right now. There isn't another way for us in this short season. I will turn my face toward the light you emanate. I will get up and blow the bubbles and push the swing.

I meditate on this and all I feel is gratitude. Thank God.

Oh, and thanks for bringing it back,

Your loving Mim