Five

There he is, my lanky boy, running ahead, riding his bike, riding his scooter, walking up a mountain.

There he is again, cornering some poor adult, happily chatting about anything, nothing, everything.

Now he's helping me to cook, helping with the shopping, setting the table, clearing away his plate.

Or helping Lukan to take off his jacket or shoes, to find a toy, to make something work.

Suddenly he bursts into song, something he's learnt at school or his music class.

Then he's playing a game, properly, one with rules and winners and losers.

And in between all this, he still asks for hugs, comes into bed for a morning cuddle, holds my hand, races to me when he gets out of school (although a good-bye kiss when I drop him off is getting rarer...). He still thinks I know everything, still wants to tell me things. Same with his papa.

He's delighted to see all his extended family.

He's delighted to spend time with our friends.

I have a feeling that five is going to be the best year ever.

Except, he could quit pretending to fart on us. And really farting on us.

Please.