You know how every time you talk to the parent of a kid under like, seven, they say that their kid is the “funnest age?” Well this time I really mean it, you guys. What at absolutely magical experience to watch a person develop an imagination — the ability to pretend play, make up stories, feign excitement or fear. The past few months have been full of that. Just today, Finn drove an ice cream truck and made several deliveries to Papa, saved a girl from a fire, and drove a mama and a papa train around a train track, all within the confines of our living room. I constantly catch myself in these moments thinking, “No WAY! This is incredible!!!” I can’t imagine something I’d enjoy watching more.
Budding imagination aside, Finnegan has continued to develop an empathetic streak that runs deep. He is quick to say sorry. He is always (and has always been) worried about anyone who he has perceived as sad. He will approach a kid on the playground who fell to ask if they are okay. When he hears Townes cry, he is immediately at his side to see what is wrong. However, the very, very best of these moments happened a couple of weeks ago, the night before my mom had a double mastectomy. I was putting the boys to bed but feeling distracted and worried about the day to come. Finn quickly sensed my uneasiness and asked me what was wrong. The next thing I know, he is coaxing me to lay down on his pillow beside him, where I laid crying, as he stroked my cheek and said, over and over, “Mama, it’s okay. Oh no Mama, don’t be sad. Don’t worry. It’s okay.” I really can’t put into words quite how special that was. The memory is burned in my mind and I think of it often.
Other less sentimental developments of the past few months have been a completely painless rendition of potty training (why, I don’t know), a sustained love vehicles of all kinds, the ability to identify all of the letters and colors, an interest in cooking, the ability to draw circles, some rather colorful descriptions of excrement, a completely wild love of friends, a downright obsession with going to church. I won’t bore you with the harder things: the temper tantrums, the night terrors, the flexing of his independence.