My dearest Jakey,
I’ve been meaning to write your special birthday letter for weeks now, please forgive the delay. I can hardly believe you are six. 6! Here is a little peak into six-year-old Jake:
You birthday weekend was three days of pure sugared oblivion. I brought Texas Sheet Cake cupcakes to your class on Friday afternoon. It was Friday the thirteenth. I’m not sure it’s been Friday the thirteenth since six years ago when you decided to show-up early and thought that would make a good birthday. On Saturday we went to swimming and skipped tee ball. You wanted to go to the dragon store in Los Gatos and then to the toy store a few blocks down. You were impressively OK with just looking at the knights and dragons and playing, without getting anything new. For dinner, Daddy made you barbecue ribs and we ate in the backyard. You had chocolate brownies for dessert.
The next day was our joint Star Wars Rebels Transformers ice skating birthday party at Sharks Ice. You masterfully navigated the dynamics of inviting your new best friend, Stuart, and your long time best friend, Helen. You ate pizza and chocolate cake and recently declared that you want the exact same chocolate cake next year.
Speaking of which, you are a planner. As soon as one holiday is over, you’re already planning for a year from now. You’ve been telling me what you’d like to be for Halloween. You like to plan your next project and your future. You can’t wait to get your hands on building materials. You tell me that when you’re old enough, you’ll make me a teleporter. I can’t wait.
Lately, you provide me with a daily update on what you’re going to be when you grow-up. Sometimes it’s an architect. Sometimes an inventor. Usually it’s a plastic maker so you “can make all the toys.” For several weeks you’ve told me almost every day that you’re going to have three jobs: a house builder, a plastic maker, and an army supply salesman. You sense that I’m not that keen on you joining the military, so you’ve concocted a profession where you can still get your hands on all the weapons and “show people how to use them.” This week you decided to focus on just one career: saving baby animals. Well, and being an adventurer that looks for gold and treasure while saving baby animals. You are a jack of all trades.
And you’re still immensely imaginative. You spin quite a tale. Last week you told me about mischievous leprechauns wreaking havoc in your classroom on St. Patrick’s Day. The story sounded feasible until at one point, you saw a flash of green and just missed grabbing the leprechaun as he darted through your outstretched hand. You were both convinced and convincing.
At CDC they’ve nicknamed you Jake the Spaghetti Snake. You like it. I think it’s because you eat unbelievably large quantities of spaghetti, and Honey Nut Cheerios. They also call you Jake from State Farm based on a current national insurance advertising campaign. You’re not quite as keen on that one. You love when I call you Buttercup.
You’re crazy for Legos. You tell me they’re the only toys you care about in the entire world. The one thing that quiets your mind and your chatter is sequential hours in complete silence building kit after addictive kit. But after hours of silent solo building, you genuinely miss Nate. You love your brother and are best buddies. You like to tell me, “Mom, Mom. Nate is epic. He’s totally epic.” I’m certain the two of you are equal parts monkey and colt.
You’re busy with homework and swimming and tee ball and soccer. You recently told me you understand everything your teacher says in Spanish and you’re more apt to spontaneously offer up bits of español. You’ve been trying really hard and I’m so proud of you.
I love you kiddo. You are everything that is important to me and I can’t wait to see the adventures this year will bring.