Eleven days ago, Milo turned 5. I had great intentions of writing a funny tribute on his actual birthday, but I found it impossible. I was sad.
Sad because 5 feels like the real end of his babyhood. The end of being wrapped like a burrito after a bath. The end of board books. The end of R’s that sound like W’s. The end of existential questions like “Is today tomorrow yet?” The end of him climbing onto my body trying to close every gap between us with a hug.
At 5, the gaps begin to open. And they’re supposed to, I realize. These openings are beginnings: writing his name, reading, dressing himself, being a boy (and he is becoming a great boy, indeed). For now I still want to mourn the baby.