Mark of Fridays: The Four Year Mark

Today our Mark is 4 years old.  And he really is becoming a big boy.

In many ways he’s like a lot of other kids his age:  he likes playing outside, practicing his writing, and going to school.  He loves Children’s Chapel, where the kids sit with a pastor and sing, and snack time.  He takes swimming lessons, but he can’t really swim yet.  He enjoys being first and “writing” in our toilet (and walls and floor) with his pee.  He likes to play at the park and go on a walk around the block each night, so he can give a hug to each of the trees in our local park.  He has a few boys he calls his friends.

At 4, there is so much he already knows.  He’s able to read simple books by himself, with very little guidance from us.  He can add and subtract, and he’s starting to use multiplication and division.  He knows all the states (and their postal codes), and he can find them on a map.  He knows most of the presidents, in order, and can tell you which ones died or were assassinated before the end of their term.  He knows Grover Cleveland held two terms, non-consecutive.  He can tell you the story of Jackie Robinson, his favorite baseball player. He knows all the bones in the body and an amazing number of animal facts.  He’s memorized all the holidays and the birthdays of everyone we know.  

He’s also starting to move like a kid, rather than a toddler.  He’s still clumsy—we rarely make it through dinner without a spilled drink or splattered yogurt, and he still gets distracted while walking and trips over toys or bumps into walls—but he runs with the fluid motion of a child.  He can use a big boy swing (with someone pushing), climb up all playground equipment unassisted, and ride a big boy bike.  He still can’t catch, but he can hit a baseball.

Our Mark at age 4 is a comfortable, confident kid.  He talks to everyone—grocery store cashiers, waitresses, strangers in the mall.  He orders his own food in every restaurant, and he’s like a celebrity in our bank.  When he comes in, people come out from behind counters and desks to hear him count the money and tell them which president is on each bill.  He also approaches kids on the playground, asks them their name and if they want to play.  He tells the girls at school they look pretty and approaches other boys on the street to tell them that dogs have phalanges just like people.  He does totally weird stuff—like deciding to pantomime the letters with his body in the middle of the floor at the McDonald’s playland—without regard for who might be watching or what they might think.

And he asks questions all the time.  What do polar bears eat, mom?  Why didn’t Gerald Ford get a second turn as president?  Why aren’t there any penguins on the North Pole?  Why did the Saint Louis Browns move to Baltimore, and when will they be back?  Why do the letters look different in cursored (cursive) than in regular writing?  Why is there a tiny country (Lesotho) inside this other country (South Africa), and why doesn’t that happen anywhere else in the world?  How many fives are in thirty?  Which is higher, heaven or space?  Why aren’t there any girl presidents?  It’s wonderful, really… he’s curious, always seeking more information.  But honestly, sometimes it’s also exhausting.

When he’s not asking questions, he’s talking.  Sometimes he’s telling us his plan for the day, step by step, followed by “Okay??” really loud at the end of each sentence.  But a lot of the time he’s just reciting math facts or listing things:  the states, the presidents, letters or numbers in an order that seems random to us but isn’t to him.  And when we’re paying attention to Anne or—heaven forbid—talking to each other, Mark just talks louder.  Or gets closer.  Or repeats himself. Or asks us over and over when it will be his turn to talk.

Sometimes we wish for just a few minutes of silence… for him to go to school, go to bed, or go for a sleepover at Nana’s.  Sometimes we wish he still took a nap.

Sometimes we wish that he were just a little bit older, able to look up information on his own (rather than asking us) or go to a friend’s house and talk to someone else for a little while.

Sometimes we wish he’d grow out of the more bothersome parts about being 4 years old and still adjusting to a new sister.  We’d like to fast-forward through the incredible stalling—especially at bedtime—and the refusal to try new foods.  We’d like to hurry though the terrible fits, when he screams at the top of his lungs in our faces or lashes out to kick or hit.  Or worse, when he gets angry at us in a public place and tries to run away.  We’d like to skip through those nights of holding the doorknob to his room closed while he thrashes and screams inside, those times when we know the rest of the day will full of punishments and talking-tos.  We know we have to bend his will, to teach him to use words and not fists – but doing so isn’t very fun.

And sometimes we’d like to fast-forward through all the competition with his sister, the seemingly endless rounds of questions:  Why is it always her turn?  What happens if she tries to take all my toys away?  What if she ruins my toy?  Why is she screaming?  Why are you holding her?  What will you do if she hits me?  Bites me?  Hurts me?   We try to reassure him, to tell him he’s a good big brother.  We know it’s a huge change for him and that sharing the attention is hard.  But sometimes we wish were through it all—that she were older, more fun, and better able to fend for herself.  We wish he were old enough to understand that she will never take his place, that we have enough love for them both.

Yet every time we express these wishes out loud – our desire to get through early childhood into times that are quieter and easier – we remember that not long from now he’ll be a sulky teenager, plugged into an iPod and unwilling to talk to us.  He’ll have places to go and friends to hang out with, and he’ll be too cool (or, more likely, too awkward and anguished) for mom and dad.

And we remember to cherish our growing boy at 4 years old, who can still – barely – curl up on our laps to hear a story and who cries when we don’t give him enough bedtime kisses.  Our darling boy who can fall asleep at Nana’s house only when he’s clutching our picture, who thinks the ocean is magical, and who starts getting excited about Halloween in July.  Our sweet, special boy who challenges us to be better parents and better people every day, since we are his Good Examples.  Our little boy who tells us we are his #1 and #2 Most Important People, who loves us unconditionally.  And who we love more than words can say.