But I won't, just yet.
I just looked out the window. He and his dad are riding their bikes around in our nice quiet dead-end, and he looks as if he's been doing it for years. It's one of those moments that just makes you go all glowy and poetic inside. If he can ride a bike, he'll go far in life. It's like watching the beginning of his whole childhood - the bit I don't really get to be part of, but that he'll remember for his whole life.
A friend said that when her daughter turned five it hit her that her daughter's early childhood was over - and it's true: already we're at a point where I have to say that I just hope all that loving and holding and nursing and loving and general groundwork I put into his babyhood has paid off, because now we're off on a new adventure where I have to do much harder stuff, like being mean and probably making him hate me sometimes, and being firm and laying down rules and boundaries. I like to think we'll work it all out together, we two and our firstborn. Mabel will sail along in his wake, creating her own ripples and probably more than a few typhoons, but we'll have weathered most things first, and worst, with Monkey.
Yesterday he was crying because of a sequence of unfortunate events (let's say), and I went and found him wrapped up in his duvet on his bedroom floor, and I held him and told him how much his dad and I both love him, always, every day, and are so proud of all the things he does and how hard he tries on his bike and all the great ideas he has and the clever things he thinks and the wonderful person he's becoming.
I spend so much of every day requesting and repeating and entreating and - let's face it - nagging and shouting, that I really have to remember to tell him the good things from time to time. The worst possible thing would be if he didn't know about them because I spent all my time blogging about what a great kid I have, and forgot to tell him in person.