Dear Spawnling,

So you're five, eh? The big oh-five. Five-orama. The Fivester. One twentieth of a century. Sheesh.

I don't exactly know who told you that it was okay to turn five, but I'm rather displeased by the whole thing. I mean, you're my baby. We have a contractual agreement that I get to dictate when you're allowed to age. I specifically remember this discussion during your second trimester. And while I know we're in union talks with Mother Nature over a few points she deems "biologically impossible" - whatever - I still think you should listen to your mom on this one.

That being said, it's been a rather fabulous five years, hasn't it? A whole lot of your awesome little life has been summed up in this silly blog for the world to see, including the day you hatched from your pod of evil and a birthday post to you from me for the last four years.

As mothers annoyingly do, I've been reminiscing all day about what I want to say to you this year. How can I possibly sum it all up? I suppose, in a nutshell, what I really want to say is "thank you."

Thank you for joining us. Your creation inside my belly was a most welcome surprise (well, after the initial shock of "What do you mean the test is positive?!"). And while I'm at it, thank you for not giving me quite as much morning sickness as Gutsy gave me, but more than Intrepid did. It was just enough to remind me never, ever to get knocked up again, but not quite enough to make me want to throw myself into traffic. Good call on your part.

Thank you for finally coming out of my stomach. Sure it was after your due date and you had to be cut out, but whatevs. In the end, you are perfect and during your pregnancy you only made the hernia I had from Gutsy's cesarean slightly larger instead of grotesquely larger, which was pretty awesome of you.

Thanks for nursing for 2 1/2 years. It gave me a nice even number of 7 years to proudly declare when I tally up all the time I spent lactating. So much better than, say, 6.52 years, or 5.9 years. 7 is a lucky number (as in, I totally loved breastfeeding but I sure count myself lucky to be wearing bras that don't snap open in the front. Believe me, they sound so much kinkier than they really are.)

Thank you for listening to me when I said you needed to not grow up quite as fast as your brothers. I told you not to walk at 9 months like they did. You listened, sort of. You walked at 10 months. The union said that was reasonable since I never put a time clause in there. Stupid me.

Remember that time you spent in the hospital? Thank you. If you were going to get sick with any weird, scary illness, I'm glad you went with Kawasaki Disease, which seems a lot scarier than it actually is  (A+ for creativity, by the way). Those few days where no one knew what was wrong with you and no one could tell me if you were going to be okay were the most terrifying days of my life, bar none. But they were also the most clarifying. I learned how to stay in the moment, appreciate the small things, sit for hours in silence, use our support network, advocate for those I love... but most importantly I saw just how precious life is, and how my world would never be the same without you. Your brothers' world, your dad's world, never again would they shine as brightly. You may be our third boy (and not the girl I was positive you were), but that in no way diminishes your importance, your presence, your significance in our family. As I sat there watching you for any signs of improvement, not knowing what was going to happen to you, I got to see just how strong our bond is, dear Spawn. And when the treatment they gave you worked and I found you awake and looking at me the next morning, I knew gratitude on a whole new level. That was one of the best days of my life, and your dad's, too. So really and truly, thank you.

Thank you for being this amazing little person. One of our friends described you as the poster child for "Kids Say the Darndest Things" and she is absolutely right. You are, by far, the most outrageous, off the wall, crazy kid I've ever met. Personality oozes out of you even when you don't try. Some people spend their whole lives trying to be as witty as you. You blow my mind, child. I have no idea where you came from - alien implantation, obviously. I find your honesty simultaneously hilarious and embarrassing, and I can honestly say I don't know anyone else who fits that bill. You are, like, the coolest person alive. Rock star material. And you grew in my womb, which makes me so damn proud.

Thank you for counting down the sleeps to your birthday, ending with "1 more sleep!" tonight before you headed to bed with a huge grin on your face. This may be the very last time anyone counts down sleeps to a birthday in this house. You're all growing up so fast. I like the fact that your dad and I don't have to wipe bums anymore, but I will miss those little kid moments that make all the bum-wiping worthwhile. I will always remember with great fondness you counting down the sleeps, my darling.

And finally, thank you for comparing my girth and softness to cotton candy the other day. I was feeling a little too comfortable in my own skin, so I sure am glad you knocked me down a few pegs.

Happy birthday, little horned wonder. I'm so proud to be your mom. I'm so glad you're five and full of life and fan-freaking-tastic awesomness. (You get that from my side of the family. The non-cotton-candy shaped body you get from your dad's, though.)

Love you tremendously and always, even on screamy days (yours and mine),
Mom