Four

I have a thing for numbers. I get excited about patterns, like last month’s calendar trinumeral of 10/10/10. (Do you know where you were at 10:10:10 am on 10/10/10? Do you realize that won’t happen for another 100 years? Hey! I know! Let’s engage in binary communication! 01010111 01101000 01101111 01101111 01110010 01101100 00100000 01110010 01101111 01100011 01101011 01110011 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01100011 01100001 01110011 01100010 01100001 01101000)

(Oh. It seems you have dozed off. Moving on.)

Finding significance in numbers and dates has always been something I enjoy, and I recently happened upon another little gem. A couple of weeks ago, while taking photos of Wito and Wita, I realized they were four years and four months old, respectively. Four and four. The only time in their lives that they will have the same number representing their age.

This is what four looks like.

Four and four has been a whirlwind of a month. So challenging and enlightening and humbling and tiring and above all, heart-swelling. I couldn’t imagine a better time to say a few things to my babies.

Wito, when did you become a young boy? Gone are those few hidden pinches of baby fat and pudgy fingers. Your arms and legs are lean and long; midriff, trim. You are strong, willful and incredibly bright. People, places, school…hell, EVERYTHING excites you, and your enthusiasm is contagious. (Although your ardor can be a little jolting to those who appreciate a quieter type.) Although you are now 45 inches tall and 44 pounds, you still flap your arms like a crazed bird when excited. Still.

You crave stimulation. Talking nonstop is your favorite pastime, but listening is proving to be the ultimate challenge. You read magazines and books with ease. When questioned, you tap your temple, furrow your brow and utter “hmmmm” before responding. You love to start your sentences with “actually,” and prefer “not really” over “no.” (Politician.) Although your selective focus pushes me to the brink of insanity, you ultimately aim to please. And just when I think I can’t possibly take another moment of your crazy 4-year-old behavior, you say something so raw and profound and wonderful that I immediately want to hold you and never let go.

You are Joy, Wito. I look into those huge blue-green eyes and now catch a glimpse of what a wonderful man you will be.

My dearest little Wita. You are sweeter than candy. Those long eyelashes, those rosy cheeks, those chubby little thighs…I can’t get enough of you. Apparently, strangers can’t either as I’m constantly accepting compliments on your behalf. How many times do you think I kiss you in day? 20 times? 50 times? ELEVENTY BILLION TIMES? Only protesting if you are tired or hungry, you spend the majority of the day smiling quietly. You exude mellowness; in fact, I would like to bottle some of it up and ingest a little every morning. And if, by small chance, a little fussiness seeps into your daily grind, a serenade of I Am Sixteen Going On Seventeen usually banishes those grumpies immediately.

The adoration you have for your brother is unwavering. You are constantly craning your neck to catch a glimpse of him in action, and when he occasionally steps away from his weathered and paint-chipped diecast cars to look your direction, forget about it. Gummy grins from ear to ear. He is already your superhero.

Your personality is proving to be vastly different than your brother’s, and it is exactly what our family dynamic needed. You were the missing piece to our puzzle, and we honestly could not ask for more.

(Well, we would like to ask one thing. Could you maybe NOT alert us by crying EVERY time you roll over at night? Excellent.)