My love,

I know. I know. You’re not a baby. You remind me of that every time I coo “baby” at you—by accident. You’re a big boy—so big these days. I know.

But you were *just* my baby. And I’m stopping to remember what these last few years have meant—to both of us.

This moment of you entering school feels like the end of our “young years” together.

School starts now—and so do friendships, homework and long days outside our home. A wonderful world awaits you my sweet boy, but that new beginning also closes a chapter of the baby years. And that makes my heart swell and feel like it’s about to burst out of my overly-emotional chest.

Five years doesn’t seem like that long ago—but we’ve accomplished so much together.

We survived extreme morning sickness, together. (Barely.)

We lived through a rough birth and hard days of breastfeeding. You don’t remember it, but I worried for weeks if you were getting enough to drink and cried desperate tears when you came in underweight at your first pediatrician’s appointment. (You turned out okay.)

We coped with postpartum anxiety when I was too scared to take you out of the house. It took us months, but we finally figured out how to not worry so much about it all.

We overcame sleep deprivation and sleep training and that one night that you didn’t sleep at all. #partyinyourcrib

We survived.

We grew, too. I watched the growth cycles as your belly became round, followed by a big spurt upwards. And I grew into my role as a mother—growing less worried and more confident that while we might not know exactly what we’re doing, we were going to wing it together.

We expanded our family. You gained two siblings in your five short years, and we worked through transitions and change and sharing and loving and squeezing (a little too hard) your baby brother and sister.

We discovered the world anew, together. You helped me to find my playful side as we rode bikes and went for walks; hunted for bugs and chased geese. We climbed playgrounds and drew pictures. We held Lion Guard dance parties.

We luxuriated in these long stretches of childhood innocence. I watched your eyes sparkle when you flew a kite, assembled a puzzle, and discovered how to read. These simple pleasures, I got to experience with you.

We also waded through tantrums and challenges and perplexing behavioral issues. We lived through days when it seemed bedtime would never come.

These five years have been filled with the highest highs—and some difficult lows.

And now, kindergarten is here—all too soon.

Kindergarten is the launching point of your life beyond our family. And that’s a very good thing, but it’s a bittersweet thing, too.