Oh you guys. He’s 4. My first baby is 4 and I can hardly believe it.
I know, I know. I am a mass of clichés but I can’t help it.
This past year has been a hard one on me. It seems the more mentally independent Adele becomes, the harder and harder it is for me to take care of two children. I no longer have as much time to devote to Sebastian as I’d like, but I also don’t have the time to devote to Adele. It’s a battle I face daily, and even more so as Sebastian grows up. Because he’s more aware now.
He’s so, so grown up. I look at him as a person now, his own self, and not just an extension of me. He’s got a life of his own, interests of his own.
He loves to build things, working with a hammer and being so proud of himself for completing the task. He loves construction sites and when we pass the one that is forever there, right down the road, we have to name all of the trucks and tractors that we see.
Look Mom! It’s Excavator! Look at Dump Truck! CRANE TRUCK IS SO COOL!
Yesterday he asked me if one day he could have a hard hat and go to a construction site.
Of course, baby. One day.
Everything now is ‘one day.’
Can you buy me a Spiderman costume one day? With boots and a mask?
One day can we go to Dinosaur World?
Will it be my birthday again one day?
He got a ton of lego sets for his birthday, the small ones, and Chris and I spend a lot of time putting them all together. We insisted he keep them in his room because I knew that as soon as Adele saw him playing with them she’d grab them out of his hands and throw them on the floor. So he’s spent a lot of time in his room lately. I noticed last night that most of the sets we painstakingly put together have been taken apart, which isn’t surprising at all.
He seems to have a need to know how things work, to take them apart just to see. Part of me is worried we’ll never find all the pieces to put the sets back together, which would kill me because I’m particular about that sort of thing, and I know Sebastian is, too, despite his penchant for tearing everything up.
He’s still a stickler for routines, and still loves TV, even though if he watches too much of it he becomes glassy-eyed and combative.
He loves superheroes and saving everyone from bad guys. He still loves water and has learned to snorkel, which has opened up a whole other world to him.
He’s a fantastic big brother. He tolerates a lot from Adele, mostly lots of smacks to the face and back. It happens multiple times a day, but he’s only retaliated twice. His patience is inspiring. He will share most of the time, but sometimes, usually when he’s tired, he doesn’t.
Whenever Adele is fussing and crying, he will try to make her feel better by singing ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.’ It works, and I’m grateful. He will pick her up and hug her to make her feel better if she’s hurt herself. He’s starting to see her as more of a playmate and less of a nuisance, though of course there’s that.
He’s learning to write his name, and can’t wait to show his preschool teachers his ‘homework’ that he’s done over the summer.
He loves dinosaurs and his ‘dinosaur bones’ which are the large landscape rocks we’ve placed around our garden beds in the back yard. He’s been known to take some inside, upstairs, and into his closet to add to his collection. He’ll take the same rocks and lay them out in a pattern to make a dinosaur skeleton. And I’ll be damned if it doesn’t look exactly like one.
He’s so much a boy. He loves to be outside and still refuses shoes, even though his feet look like jungle feet, full of scratches and bruises and broken toenails. He barely feels pain, it seems like, and almost any kind of pretend play now involves fighting.
Play dinosaurs? There’s a good and bad one and I’m always the bad one and he has to take me down.
Kung Fu Panda? Same thing.
It’s not in my personality to play like this, but I’m trying, even if I have to remind him continually that it’s probably not the best idea to kick his mother in the shins as hard as he can, even though she’s a bad dinosaur.
He talks about poop all day long, and threatens to poop on everyone, then will giggle uncontrollable. Passing gas also warrants a guffaw and a “Did you hear that?”
He’s so tough that it still surprises me. He won’t tell me when he hurts himself, unless I see him do it. And will more often than not refuse my comfort, unless he’s really hurt himself, in which case he will allow me to let him lean into me for two seconds.
Yesterday I spotted a huge, bruised knot on his forehead. I still haven’t figured out where it came from.
He’s so sweet, so very sweet, and his hugs and kisses are so forceful that they almost hurt. He loves his family and he loves to do ‘man work.’
He listens so well, and really wants to make you happy. If he’s getting in trouble, which seems to happen more as he wants more independence than I’m willing to give him just yet, he will make a funny face and a funny noise to throw you off so you’ll laugh at him instead of fuss at him.
He’s so handsome and he looks so old, so mature. So much not like a little boy.
He still wants me to carry him up to bed every night. He still waits for me to say ‘Sleep well my sweet boy,’ when I turn out his light just so he can say “Sleep good, Mommy.’
This morning was the first time he came downstairs by himself, without waiting for Chris or me to get him. It was as if he said “I’m 4. I’m big enough now.”
Yes you are, baby. Yes you are.
(Last year's birthday post is here.)