This is you now.
You are the iconic four-year-old boy.
You are everything good about being a four-year-old boy. You are all yellow galoshes, splashing in puddles, covered in mud, collecting rocks and sticks, playing with cars, throwing balls, stacking blocks, and building forts. You are all overly helpful, full of imagination, and idolizing big brother.
You are also nearly everything difficult about being a four-year-old boy. You are all stubborn, overly loud, jump on the furniture, bring mud in the house, torment big brother.
But I love every bit of your boyishness.
Your imagination is bigger than ever. Every conversation is full of pretend. You walk the moon like a kite during our evening walks. Dinosaurs and tigers lurk to be captured in every shadow. This morning, I found you in the laundry bin, surrounded by a sea of blankets, singing "Row, Row, Row Your Boat!" as loudly as you could, while you paddled happily. It was made even more darling by the last line of "Life's a bunny dream!"
You have your own vocabulary of made-up words. Don't ask me what a "folkelgonie" is, but we all get called that a lot.
Getting asked to do something (I can't remember what), you shouted, "Stop! That's making me frustration!" So close, darling.
There is so little left of this four-year-old boy. I can see it in the way your body is thinning out, lengthening, how you are becoming all knees and elbows. I can see it in the way your cheeks are not so round and dimpled. I can hear it in your increasing vocabulary. You are rapidly on your way to five.
But for now, we will keep wearing galoshes, splashing in puddles, and pretending the world is a pirate ship.