My Baby

My son is going to five soon (gulp!) but he still likes to pretend he's my preshush baby on occasion. Today in the tub, after pleading his case for why, exactly, he shouldn't have to wash his hair, but maybe instead just rinse it one time, he told me he needed his privacy. Because he is an almost-five-big-boy! I usually hang out in my room (three short feet from the bathroom) and fold clothes while he's in the tub.


He yells out play by plays of his "movie making", because he wants his privacy, yes, but also my undivided attention. All of his "movies" include multiple characters from Star Wars and are acted out with his wrinkled fingers skittering this way and that along the edge of the tub.


Finally ready to get out, he yells to me from the bathroom in a sweet, sugary voice, "Your little baby is getting out of the tub all by himseeelf! And I'm going to sneak up on you now so DON'T LOOK AT ME...AND BE SURPRISED!" He comes screeching in, all wet and dripping and bare to scream BOO! in my ear, and because I am a good mama I act all surprised and afraid, instead telling him to tone it down, dude. "Your baby got you, your baby got you!", he yells. He tackles me with hugs and smooches and asks me if he scared me, as if my Oscar-worthy panicked swooning a second ago wasn't enough.

I love this age. I want us to stay 32 and almost 5 together forever.

So, even though he's now old to warn me of an impending surprise attack; even when he officially heads off to school; even when he turns into a miserable sixteen year old and demands asks me for the car keys; he is still, and will always be, my baby.