Letters to Jack: 4 years, 2 months

Crawfords.2018(23of87)

Hey there, sweet thing,

It’s a few days before New Year’s, mostly quiet in the house. We just finished reading two books — Thanks from the Very Hungry Caterpillar, and Cars’ Tractor Trouble — in your new big-kid bed. We couldn’t find Alex, your green, stuffed alligator whose nose and tail you’ve chewed off, so we decided he must be playing hide and seek and, boy, he picked a really good spot. Dad and Charlie are taking turns reading a book in his room, and he’ll be going to bed soon, too.

Sounds like an idyllic holiday break, no?

In many ways, it really has been. Lots of time together, and time with your grandmas. Cuddles on the couch while watching old-school “Frosty the Snowman.” Trimming the Christmas tree and eating cookies. A blissful trip to a ranch where you got to feed sheep, ride horses, and go on a hayride to look for Christmas lights.

But there has also been screaming. So much screaming. And yelling. And crying. Your new four-year-old brain must be going through some kind of massive transformation because you’ve been acting downright bonkers for the past few weeks.

Lack of impulse control is a recurring challenge. A lot of Jack-don’t-touch/do thats followed by you repeatedly and unceremoniously touching and doing just that. On Thursday you locked yourself, me and Charlie in the garage only minutes after getting in trouble for locking the bathroom door. No phone. No shoes. No bra. Ah, fun times.

And there are the tantrums, those classic zero-to-60, I-want-what-I-want-and-I-want-it-now episodes that generally leave you writhing on floors or screaming in the car. You’re getting stronger, so you’ve begun responding physically to situations that you don’t find acceptable. Pinching, biting, hitting. While wrangling you at the Zoo the other day, you tried four times to tear my glasses off my face because you were so pissed.

The majority of these situations unsurprisingly involve your brother, because you still fight like you’re competing in the Hunger Games. If I hear another “No, you didn’t, “Yes, I did,” “No, you didn’t,” “Yes, I did,” exchange between the two of you, I may move out of the country.

Or, one instant you’re laughing uproariously at one another, then shrieking that one of you hurt the other — ON PURPOSE, of course — then back to laughing uproariously again. All in like four seconds. How can parents survive this madness?!

I took you and Charlie to Target a few weeks back — without Dad, silly me — and the entire trip was like this. One minute, I’m yelling out for you to stop playing tag in the breakable household goods section; the next, I’m trying to console your broken heart because Charlie said we couldn’t buy the gift bag of the dabbing Santa and ripped it out of your hands.

In the checkout line, you decided it would be fun to wrestle each other, right there on the dirty Target floor. Limbs everywhere. Giggles punctuated by screams of pain. I looked down at you both, exhausted defeat in my eyes, and heard a man chuckle behind me.

“Boys,” he said, with a look of empathy. “I’ve got two at home.”

Yet, between the fighting episodes have been some really sweet moments. Christmas Eve and Christmas morning were just lovely. You are fully immersed in the magic, and so is Charlie still, we believe, so the whole thing was such a joy for your Dad and me. Your favorite gifts from Santa were pajamas (PJ Masks and moose ‘jams), a Hot Wheel race care track, Alpha-Bots, and a neck pillow for the car. In fact, you love that pillow so much that you wore it on your head for at least 48 hours.

Your holiday concert at preschool was hilariously special. I joke that you’re not destined for the theater because you just marched to the beat of your own drum up there, baby. No singing “Gingerbread Man” with your classmates. And you forgot — or didn’t care about — choreography. Instead, you waved excitedly at Grandma B and me, gazed in giggly awe at all the parents in the audience, and didn’t quite feel like going back to your seat when your group solo was over. I’ll treasure the video I took of that performance forever.

For Halloween, I convinced you to be a “Jack” character for the fourth year in a row (victory!) and you went as Jack Jack from the Incredibles. In November, we took you to Disneyland for the first time, where
you loved the rocket ships and sat in the front seat on Splash Mountain!
Driving into the parking structure, Grandma Z said, “Jack, get ready to be amazed.” You exclaimed, adorable, “I wuv to be amazed!”

There are the more subtle joys, too. Like how you make friends with adults and kids wherever you go. The way you close your eyes and smile when you taste something that you like. Your obsession with whether or not we are driving on a freeway, and, if so, what is it’s name; if not, when will we go on the freeway?! Your preference for sitting on my lap on the couch, no matter how big you get.

I’ve been thinking a lot about all the growing you’ve been doing. Perhaps it’s because you have a new baby cousin — Welcome to the world, Elizabeth! — and she seems so tiny. Or that I was pregnant with you when Charlie was four years and two months old. You’re in a booster seat, a big-kid bed, and you can get dressed and undressed yourself (when you want to). You’re reading a bit and doing early addition. We took you to see The Grinch, your first movie in a theater, and you did great.

I love that you are growing older, but I still cherish those fleeting moments when you still feel new. On Thanksgiving, you fell asleep in the car on the way down to Grandma Z’s and I was able to carry you into the house still zonked. For at least a half an hour, you lay on my chest, sound asleep, drooling a bit, breathing deeply into me. You felt warm and wonderful.

Now, that’s what I call idyllic.

 

 


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1 Response to Letters to Jack: 4 years, 2 months

  1. Barbara Crawford says:

    You captures so much of Jack’s personality here. The photos are wonderful, too. It’s great that you are so faithfully writing these.

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