Pamela Tracy here. My son is five. With five, comes lots of maturity (yes, I'm smiling). The day he turned five, a mere three months ago, he took me by the hand and led me to his bathroom so we could remove all the toys from the tub because "I'm five now."
Yesterday, Mother's Day, I climbed out of bed and headed for the kitchen. After a minute, I heard Mikey's door open and he joined me. Poking his head around the refrigerator, he said, "Happy Mother's Day." I looked in my own bedroom to see if Daddy was up to prompt Mikey in this greeting. Nope. My son, age five, remembered on his own. Wow.
Last Thursday, his little pre-school had a mother's tea (last year I really messed up and thought it was a tea). As we sat at a table in a gym, watching the video chronicaling he and his classmates school year, I opened the Mother's Day card he'd made me for. The card started sentences and Mikey's teachers had filled in how he finished them. Here they are. Mikey's responses are in bold.
My mom looks best after she gets a hair cut.
My mom likes to make breakfast and lunch.
My mom always says we have to go to school.
My mom likes to play trains with me.
Precious words, eh?
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