Where are you going?
Dear Kaleb,
I've been preparing for five for a few months now, dwelling under the feel of it. It feels proud and bittersweet. It feels old and new. I try picturing your sisters at five, try remembering what five was like for them. They were in preschool, too. They were mastering writing their names, recognizing their numbers, and learning their colors, too. They were a lot like you are now. I remember how just around the time Audyn turned five, she decided she would try to be the boss of her world and mine. "Excuse me," I would say looking down at her round little face. "Are you the boss? Or is Mommy the boss?" This well worn phrase is back for you, little man. I use it many times a day as you resist just about every request I make, especially when it's time to do something different. Use the potty. Go to school. Get ready for bed. Run an errand. Even come to the table for dinner. Who resists that? Especially when he's hungry? I've been ordered to walk down the steps behind you. "I the leader!" you insist. I've been shouted at a dozen times a day for the last month or more. "No! Aaaaahhhh!" you growl any time I press in, any time I ask you to do it now. Hitting isn't beneath you either.
It drives us crazy. But then I think about what must drive you crazy. Being the youngest, Auntie Meg has told us, often means being the last to be heard. And even if we do hear you, we don't always understand you. I imagine what it must be like to strain day in and day out to make yourself clear. I imagine the work you put into it, the frustration when the hard work doesn't pay off and we still can't decipher what you want to communicate. Then I 'm not as bothered when you yell. I would, too. Even a slap (though it immediately receives a consequence) can wake me to your message: "Hey, this is hard for me. And I'm mad." Still. I'm the boss of your world. Let's just remember that.
This last year has brought many changes for our family. Good changes. You probably don't know this now, but Daddy and I have spent the last two and a half years working on making it possible for you to go to Kindergarten at the same school your sisters attend and Daddy and I teach. We love your town school and we especially love your teachers, but we've always known that we want you to be a part of the community where we devote most of our time, where many of our friends are. We want you to walk the same halls your sisters have. We want you to be able to give them a high five when you pass them in the hall on the way to specials. We want you to have the same teachers and learn to see your world through God's love lens. It's been a journey. Truly. But we've learned so much and we're so excited for what's to come. While I don't really want time to keep up its steady gallop, I am excited to see you walk into those very doors, down that very hall, and into that very classroom. I'm thrilled.
Then there's our little house. The only home you've ever known. Those walls have held so much over the last seven years. We said goodbye to those four walls this past December. It was time. But it was a little sad, too. A couple of weeks ago we went back to pick up some mail that had been misdelivered. We pulled into the driveway and you started wiggling in your seat. "Home!" you exclaimed. "Out!" I ran to the door and plucked the envelope off the glass that the new owners had left for us, then followed the stone path Daddy had built back to the van and you; on the way back I looked at the dogwood tree we planted when your sister was two months old, glanced at the garage you loved to rummage for toys, saw the dried seed heads of dormant perennials Papa and Emelyn bought me one Mother's Day. My heart tugged. Apparently yours did, too. "No!" you yelled as we backed out of the driveway. "This house. This house!"
I had thought the longing had passed. I had thought you were settled in our new house. But that little house was still home to you and you wanted out. "Out! This house!" You twisted in your seat, craned your neck so you could see it disappear down the road and started to cry. It was hard to soothe you from the front seat. But we did our best, you and I. We looked ahead and just kept driving. Our new house is in a little woods off a winding country road just over a beautiful reservoir. We cross a small, dilapidated bridge to reach it. We travel an awfully long driveway to get to its front door. Its rooms are spacious (they still echo), and we love the space to grow. You're getting used to it. We're making it home, this big house in the little woods. In time, this will be the house you remember.
In September, you had your fifth surgery in four years. This time your ENT doctor removed your tonsils and adenoids. That evening after the surgery, we heard you breathing through your nose for the very first time. Though the recovery was as challenging as your doctors said it would be, we are overjoyed at the results. In addition to nose breathing, your overall health has improved. Better still, you've grown leaps and bounds with talking and your hearing is no longer compromised.
In addition to the big changes happening to you, you've grown up some all on your own, too. We made some breakthroughs in eating this year. You'll try things you never would before. Yesterday I handed you a bowl of yellow peppers and carrots with ranch. Six months ago you wouldn't let them near your mouth or, if you had, would have immediately gagged on the texture. There you sat at the table, one leg draped over the side of your chair. Dip and crunch. Dip and crunch. Broccoli, muffins, and meat. Pretzels, green beans, and raisins. A rainbow of textures and flavors. At school you're counting to twenty now and recognizing many numbers, You know how to write your name in a scrawl we can all read. You know the letters and sounds that make that name yours. And you've mastered most of the other letters as well. At home, we're moving to sight words now. You're favorite method of practicing the words is by playing "No Peeking," You pretend to close your eyes while we hide flashcards around the room. Then you find them, name them, and match them to a laminated card with a grid of the same words. When it's your turn to hide and our turn to find, we lose one card every time. We haven't figured out if you forget where you've hid the inevitable straggler or if you're pulling our legs; we're fairly certain it's usually the latter. When we packed our little yellow house to move, I found all those missing cards--in Daddy's closet, in a box of tampons, and buried in a handful of other odd places. We lost our first card at the new house yesterday, a sure sign we're settling in.
You're a very active little guy at just five. You love riding a horse; running; and playing hockey, golf, football and baseball. You love watching Daddy or I shoot baskets. Sometimes we'll be playing outside and you'll bring one of us the basketball. You usually want to watch; I know you're scheming toward the day when you're tall enough to make those shots yourself. In the meantime, I see you taking mental notes while Daddy swishes the orange orb through its net. Not that long ago you could barely lift a full size basketball. Now, I watch you practicing your dribble.
Perhaps your biggest physical accomplishment this year has been pedaling a bike. You started on your tricycle in physical therapy and practiced up and down the hallways at school. Last spring, you could inch your trike along just a few rotations of the wheel. Then this summer, Grammy and Papa gave me a tagalong bike trailer for you called a Wee Hoo. It hooks up to my bike and lets you sit in your own secure seat with pedals attached. We went mobile last fall, covering ten miles together on our first trip out on the trails and many more after. What fun we both had zooming along through tunnels of fall foliage. In that short season you learned to peddle. Soon you could make your own trike go up and down our street. Then, for your birthday, Grandma and Grandpa, Grammy and Papa, and Daddy and I surprised you with your first bike with training wheels. Three months ago all we could get you to do was sit on one. The balance required to keep your bum on that small seat was still a challenge and you'd quickly hop off. A few days ago, we brought your new wheels out into unseasonably warm weather. You climbed on that blue and black big boy bike and rode off down the driveway like a pro. I couldn't believe it.
I see now that my baby is disappearing and in his place I find a young boy who is smart, strong and brave. Brave to whatever task is set before him and persistent in its pursuit. On the day of your birth, I listened to a geneticist provide a litany of the limitations you would face. The list was her answer to my question: "What is Down syndrome like? What can we expect?" I won't repeat what we were told to expect because it bears little resemblance to the boy I know and love and because I hardly remember it, anyway. At the time, its contents stung my spirit like snow flakes biting bare skin. It held such power. It was heavy. In my mind's eye that list of don'ts is brittle now like sun-parched paper that crumbles to dust when touched and gets swept away on barely a breeze.
The only list I keep now is a running list of hopes and dreams for the immediate future:
Good health
New friendships
A love of learning
A heart for God
Do you see what the list holds? It holds hope. It holds joy. It holds you--your gift of hospitality, your love of people, your desire to know and do what your sisters know and do, your natural curiosity, your blossoming awareness of a heavenly father who loves you beyond measure.
Sweet boy. You drive us nuts some days with your mischief (Grammy says everything you do is a STEM experiment) and your bossiness. You make us laugh always. You give the best hugs and the sweetest kisses. You bring so much goodness to our lives that our cups overflow. Our hearts are full. Happy fifth birthday, Little Man. And many, many more.
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