Happy, Happy Birthday to you, Finn, my Finch, my beautiful five-year-old boy!
Looking back at last year’s birthday post, I can see that some things about you haven’t changed: you still treasure funny faces, play with cars and rockets, feast on books, and dream of planets and the ocean deep. You still prefer the color orange, pick crayons over markers, and love broccoli but hate tomatoes. You still are better at talking than listening.
But these days, when you open your mouth (which is always moving, it seems), you’re not just talking about all the things you’ve learned: you’re sharing the inventions of your imagination. Yes, you still love to read what others have written (and now often read, paragraphs and all, completely on your own) — but you are a storyteller now, too. You make up your own rhymes, write and illustrate your own narratives about going back in time with the dinosaurs or to the bottom of the ocean, and sometimes, unbeknownst to me, use my iphone to take goofy pictures and make videos of yourself running from “scary predators” or assuming the role of teacher, classifying your toys or explaining the features of your room. I sometimes discover your selfies and shaky clips late at night when I’m setting my alarm for the next day (also of course checking to make sure that YOU didn’t at some point set an alarm for me that might go off with robot, duck, or marimba sounds at 3 in the morning). It feels so good to laugh with surprise, to lean over toward Daddy with my phone to show him the unexpected treasure you’ve left behind… something you’ve made completely on your own. You’ve become an artist, an originator, creating something new from whatever voice or perspective you want to assume at that moment: paleontologist, chef, doctor, astronaut, scuba diver, teacher, artist, or just silly kid.
I love you more and more each day, my silly, smart, creative boy. It makes me so happy to watch you become the author of your own life.