Dear Charlie

(Sorry if you're sick of reading "Back to School" posts. Heck.. I'm even sick of them. Just one more?? Please?)

Dear Charlie,

My sweet, sweet Charlie boy.. I thought I was prepared. I thought I was ready. I thought already having done it once would make it easier the second time.

I was wrong.

On Friday you started Preschool. And I was completely blindsided by the fierce ache in my heart when I walked out that door. (Actually it started when I woke up early that morning to make your Monkey-Toe Bread for breakfast..) 

How is it possible that you're old enough for this? That it's your turn already? Wasn't it just the other day we were dropping Nolan off for his first day of preschool?

Over the years I've semiadjusted to Nolan being gone, but you? You've always been there. My little buddy. As upset as I might be about leaving him, I always knew you were there in the backseat waiting for me, ready to babble another story about 'kunks (skunks), or excitedly watching out the window for the crick where you always see a splash from a fish jumping. ( - :

You have always been a little more *ahem* undisciplined then your older brother, more of a "free-spirit." And I love that about you. You have always been the messiest eater, with an ever present ring of dirt/food/whoknowswhat around your mouth, earning you the endearing nickname "Pigpen." And you have single handedly elicited most of my parenting "I never thought I would say that" moments..

     - "Charlie.. keep the kitties ears out of your mouth."

     - "Put the tape measure down. We don't measure our pee-pee.."

     - "No.. we do not shock-a-bloo-ey the kitties."

     - "Please don't pound nails in each other's butts."

     - "CHARLIE! Take the kitties ears out of your mouth!"

You are also my all-too classic middle child. You, my poor son are never the first to do anything.. Nolan always has you beat in the "first to go to school" or "first the lose a tooth" scenarios. You're forever in his shadow of being bigger and stronger and faster (although we tell him frequently that you might be bigger someday just like daddy's "little" brothers) And so often you are also overshadowed by your little sister as well, with all Ella's doctor appointments and weekly therapies taking my time and energy..

But whether you meant to or not.. you, my sweet boy, have taken those challenges and used them for good. You are by far the sweetest, most kind-hearted boy I have ever met. It comes completely natural to you to share with others and you get no joy whatsoever out of having something someone else doesn't. On Nolan's first day of school when I made cookies for us to decorate together? You refused, saying you wanted to wait until Nolan got home so he could do it with us. When you get to pick a special supper for a birthday or special event, you almost always pick Nolan's favorite instead of your own, because you know it will make him happy. When you got a birthday card with two dollars in, you immediately said "One for me and one for Nolan!" And just the other day at a parade when you picked up 2 licorish sticks, without a second thought you turned and immediately gave one to your brother.

Oftentimes you are the first to ask Dad when he gets home from work how his day was, while the rest of us are all selfishly talking about our own. And just the other day I had a pounding headache so when I laid down next to you at rest time, you reached over and started gently rubbing my head. You asked if that made it feel better, then leaned over and sweetly kissed my cheek. You rubbed my head for a few moments longer, then leaned in close and softly whispered "Mom.. I have to scratch my butt now."

Oh Charlie.. you never cease to bring a smile to my face.

As sad as I am to see you growing up, I am so excited for this new journey in your life. I know you will have so much fun there because let's face it.. as much as I try I just am NOT as much fun as a 4 year old (or 6 year old) boy. I'm just not.

You're ready for this. I know you are.

I can't wait to hear all about it.

Love
Mom