Reid Turns Three

I don't know what it is about Reid's third birthday that frightens me more: that I have a three-year-old son, or that with every passing day, that boy is becoming more independent, smart and funny. The truth is probably somewhere in between. my mortality -- our mortality, K's and mine -- seems to sharpen when we see the bumps and scrapes of Reid's short boyhood. And then time seems to stretch out elastically before us when we talk or visit with friends whose kids are teenagers, or even just nine or ten.

but Reid is such a magnificent gift that for every minute I feel comically old around him -- creaking knees! -- I pass five more where his completely unchecked laughter refreshes my outlook on life. It's strange because this fun is so indulgently fulfilling, I half-feel it's a little bit of a bad thing. Around other adults, I find myself yielding to the tug of grown-up-ness. I'll let other play with him and stand around being parent-y, rather than reveal that my own greatest desire at that moment is to be wrestling or talking in funny voices just to see him flash his killer smile.

Life with Reid is full of surprises and those conflicts. Lately, we clash over bedtime like he's a nine-year-old. We negotiate and he shows a CEO's instinct for playing a situation to his advantage. My favorite aspect of summer, the long, lazy days and late-setting sun have proven his ally. He ntoes as we hustle up to begin the hour-long bedtime ritual that the 'sun is still awake.' Indeed, the son sometimes stays awake for hours. As I wade through his battery of excuses and distractions, and I am thinking of the chores that await me downstairs before my own bedtime, Reid never flags, and his charm stays on full force.

More than anything, I see Reid's third birthday as a chance, I think, for his mom and I to begin imagining even higher hopes for him. From the moment we found out we were having a baby we held the hopes you hold forever: success, happiness, a life as free of fear and loss as possible. We're hope this way forever for both our beautiful children.

But as Reid's little life takes shape, I have other hopes and dreams that reflect his life now and I know are colored by my own experiences. I hope he grows to understand hard times but never loses his soft side. Although he is every bit th rough and tumble boy, he is truly a sensitive soul. The tenderness he tries to express when he holds his little sister, or hugs a friend, or reassures his mom or me that 'we're okay' is a beautiful aspect of his personality. But it's hard to be sensitive and tender in our world sometimes. Giant, disappointing realities like injustice and war make it difficult. His country, which Reid knows nothing about, has been at war since before his young life began. Understanding this will be a challenge for him.

I hope, too, that he is the lucky child whose dazzling imagination stays a part of his life long after other kids' have faded away. We look into Reid's world of fantasy play and scratch our heads. He is dreaming up plots and schemes and characters and events. He's composing dialogue on the fly, as one of his action figures (a spaceman) struggles to keep from falling off a pirate ship (of course) until he is saved by his friend, a shoe. Reid's imagination is dizzying and delightful. I hope it stays a part of his world as he grows up.

My final hope for Reid is that he continues to be a believer. Everyone wants their children to be more successful in life than they were. Reid will be our own 2.0. I don't believe that means he'll get more degrees or make more money or whatever. I want him to be happier, or more importantly I want him to have a greater capacity for happiness than I could ever have. Our life is wonderful. But I'm a skeptic. I'm a worrier. I'm Charlie Brown. I want Reid to be Snoopy. I want to see him in his future dancing like he doesn't care. Growing up will teach him lesons for sure. I just don't want him to take them too seriously.

So, son, as I write these words, you're drowsing in your bed. You fought sleep tonight, more than usual. Dinner was late and in your head (you can't tell time), it felt like bedtime came too soon after dinner, that you were being cheated. Before you went to bed, I told you that you've got to sleep tonight so we can wake you up tomorrow and have your birthday. You said you didn't want cupcakes, you wanted to come downstairs. I remember making these demands myself at age siz, when my dad only came home from the hospital in time to kiss me goodnight. When you read this, some day in the future, I want to tell you something. Every night, I think about what bedtime felt like years ago, and every night, I feel sorry I can't let you stay up late. But we're parents now, and bedtime is bedtime.

And your mom and me? We're exhausted.

Happy birthday. I love you, son.