You’ve been telling people “5 and a half” since Christmas, which you must have learned at school where I’m sure it’s vitally important to distinguish between those who are “5 and a half” and those who are – in your words – “just plain 5”.
With three months to go, this is right about the time of year I start to panic about letting “five” slip through my fingers. Somehow, I temporarily forget the moments that have absolutely packed these first three quarters of your year — moments punctuated by your genuine giggle and your signature, squinty smile.
Six is coming. Are we ready? Have we squeezed all the life out of five? I haven’t committed every one of your stories to writing, but how could I? Every word that falls out of your mouth, dripping with Southern drawl rivaling only your daddy’s, is worthy of your five-and-three-quarters memoirs. I could fill pages and pages with the back-to-back(-to-back) questions fueled by your boundless curiosity, the tender heart that sometimes takes people by surprise, and the stubbornness that keeps you well-acquainted with the time-out spot.
I could never possibly write every one of your stories and my camera could never hope to capture every expression on that dirty little face. But I try. I love you, Buddy. All five and three quarters of you.