To my dear sweet little man,  Monday you will be six.  You have been so excited you've asked me everyday this week if you could please be six when you got home from school.  

I can hardly believe six years ago you were born, but there you go. 

You'll hear that a lot in your life; time flies; it was only yesterday; they grow up so fast; but it's true. You and your sister are growing up at lightning speed.  Yesterday you told me you didn't want to watch your beloved Sesame Street because you weren't a baby anymore.  You're right, but still it catches me off guard and I feel a loss with every gain you make toward independence.  You get annoyed when I say you will always be my baby, even when you're taller than me, get married and have your own kids.  You usually tell me you won't date because you have to concentrate on your art.

 The soon-to-be-six you is quick to answer when asked what you want to be when you grow up. "An Artist," you state.  You are a gifted artist.   You also ask a lot of questions I don't have answers for: questions about why you have food allergies, or if your having a hard time with letters and numbers is because of your allergies.  I see you trying to make sense of it all and I wish I could tell you definitively why things are the way they are for you. But the hard truth is, I don't have any answers for you.  When you grow up and become a dad, you'll understand how helpless I feel not being able to answer these questions for you.  Hopefully, you'll also understand why I tell you I don't know the answers, as frustrating as it is for you now.  I am falible, and don't know everything.  But I will keep my word to you, I will try to find out, and I will never stop trying.

 Today you were having a reaction when I picked you up from school.  I could see the hives on your face and neck spreading and growing red and I made you take the allergic reaction dose of Benadryl.  You hate the taste, and complain bitterly about having to take it, but you take it because you have experience beyond your years.  You are familiar with the pain that swiftly follows the itchy hives and redness and you know to avoid it.

"It's not fair," you said.  It's absolutely not fair.  You've had more than your fair share of adversity. But you are a healthy boy, just with a life-threatening condition.  Of course that won't make much sense to you so I don't tell you in those words because you already worry about so many things. 

Don't worry.  You were born a fighter, and you have pulled through every crappy thing life has thrown at you, and will continue to do so.  What I see in you at six are glimpses of the man you'll grow up to be.  Strong, compassionate, funnier than most people and with a capacity for such tremendous joy and love. 

Today when you spontaneously crawled into my lap and asked why I like to hold you, I told you because soon you'd be too big for me to hold.   You traced your little finger on my face, noting that although we don't look the same, we have the same dimples.  Then you told me when you were too big for me to hold, you'd hold me.  You take my breath away.

I love you to the moon and back,

Mama