We have just survived the longest long weekend of our family life, though I think it was largely a success.
First, we all came down with Preschool Plague, and your Dad and I are *still* not over it almost two weeks later. Then your Aunt Rachel came up to visit for the weekend, bringing a cowboy costume, a firefighter costume, and sundry vintage Fisher Price toys, which caused so much delight for you that we still haven't opened your birthday presents days later because I'm sort of concerned you'll get spoiled.
On your actual birthday we had a pirate theme party with lots of kids from the neighborhood, adults who love you (Miss Margie! Uncle Eli! the Naughtons!), your new best friend Ryan (a sweet little guy you met through T ball), and your favorite babysitter Abby (who you used to call "my big kid with Crocs"). We had a treasure chest pinata and bad grocery store sheet cake decorated by Rachel and punch in plastic coconuts. And - my poor Charles! - you had a terrible time. You got a freak paper cut from one of the blow-up swords and it launched you into a full on meltdown which took you out of the party for upwards of half an hour. I felt terrible. The truth is, I think I responded in a very similar way to birthday parties when I was your age. The anticipation, the pressure to have a good time, the attention, the noise - it's a lot for a sensitive person, which you avowedly are. I think next year we will give you more control over what kind of birthday celebration we have. Once it thinned out a little and it was quieter and down to just a few kids, you actually started to play and have a good time.
Uncle Eli stayed over, and the following day we undertook a massive quest. We packed up your knight costume and drove an hour and a half to King Richard's Faire, the annual Renaissance festival in Carver, MA. Fortunately your dad and Eli had read up ahead of time, and so we managed to get there early enough to actually get a parking space. We explored a charming mock medieval village, gawked at all the grownups in crazy costumes, waited in long lines for everything (once behind a group of kids named Odin, Freya, and Raven - this is a whole situation, I'm telling you), and saw - joy of joys! - an actual mock tournament. I was pretty impressed by those guys, no lie - it takes some gumption to shatter a lance on another guy while cantering, and then throw a sword into a bale of hay while in motion. A couple of the knights were even adept at stunt falls, and threw themselves backwards off of their horses to the ground. Unhorsed! We cheered. We booed. It was good fun. Then you and I waited in a long line to ride a pirate ship swing thing that you move by pulling ropes. Waiting was tough, but we pushed through and then you had a huge smile on your face. By then it was time for bad overpriced pizza, and shopping for a sateen cape for you pattered with a gold lion's head. I was grateful your dad talked you out of the wooden swords. Man, all you wanted was a wooden sword. But you like shiny dress up capes better. On the drive home you fell fast asleep.
Another notable development - on the night of your birthday you informed me that you were a big kid now, and you were ready to sleep in your own bed. We tucked you into the antique twin that is in the nursey - the same one I slept in, and Grandpa slept in, and my grandfather slept in, and everyone slept in, going back to - we estimate - around 1820. It has a horsehair mattress and carved pineapples under the cannonball posts, and it creaks. Fortunately I can still fit in it with you. You've fallen asleep in there three nights running. To be fair, each night you have rejoined the big bed sometime between midnight and 4 am. But I'm pretty impressed with your decisiveness. This is the second time you've just made up your mind that you are going to do something, and then done it. (The first was potty training.)
One of your favorite books the past couple of days is a book about a baby robot who wonders what love is, called "Love, Z." It's a library book from school, and last night you were heartbroken because it had to go back to the library. But I've ordered a copy for us. One night in your big kid bed we were reading it, and you remarked while looking at the different robots, who all have differently shaped heads balanced over differently shaped bodies, that the robot with the round head and round body would have a hard time balancing their head.
"Why is that?" I asked you.
"Because with round things, when you touch them, they only come together in one place," you explained. Which, to be honest, blew me away, Mr. Perception of Geometry. Dang.
This morning you were playing with a calculator that was part of Ryan's birthday present to you, and you decided to pretend it was a cell phone.
"I am Serious Charles," you informed us. You and your Dad sat on the sofa in the kitchen being Serious and taking meetings. You answered the phone and said "Hello? No. Yes. I'll meet you there at eleven. Bye."
My very serious Charles is a big four year old boy now. And I try to tell you, every single night, how proud I am of you. And how very much I love you.
