It Can't Be Helped

As I cuddled with Calvin on the couch Sunday night, the night before his sixth birthday, I said, "Don't turn six, Calvin."

"It can't be helped," was his reply.

His answer was so very Calvin-like, with his uncanny ability to toss out grown-up or antiquated turns of phrase at the most unlikely of moments. But lately those grown-up ways of speaking seem to fit him more and more. He is really growing up into a boy-man, and though there are traces of those emotional meltdowns and tantrums of his preschool years, he often tries really hard to control them. I love watching him discover his gifts and passions, seeing him learn to take responsibility, and following him along this path to greater independence. He stays up way past his bedtime reading old Hardy Boys books, he takes care of Linus with great attention, and he can occupy himself with Legos for hours on end. He is one amazing kid, and I am privileged to be his mommy.

I have not been a great mom to preschoolers, but if what I see of Calvin is indicative of the future, I think I am going to like the boy years. It can't be helped.