Four is no longer a baby. Four isn’t even a toddler. Four is a big kid. My baby turns four today. He makes conversation, thinks creative ideas and concludes his own opinions. He offers me his cheek to kiss in front of his friends. He pedals a bike with training wheels and climbs on the big playground equipment that is so high, I get vertigo thinking about it. He has his own chair at the movie theatre, his own ticket to the amusement park and his own seat on an airplane. No, he isn’t a baby anymore.

He says prayers so sweet the angels surely must pause to listen. He prides himself on coloring in the lines, reads “Go Dog, Go!” and “Are You My Mother?” and tries to work the maze on the kids’ meal placemat. He sometimes bursts out with a random song of praise to God, his joyful voice mumbling through words he doesn’t know but continuing to sing gibberish until he gets to a line that he remembers.

Tonight we will celebrate with an exquisite dinner of his choosing (McDonald’s). We will sing and talk about what a big boy he is. We will splurge with ice cream for dessert. He will show everyone his four fingers and play shy when they ask his age.

Then, when the lights are out and the blankets are tucked around him, I will stroke his soft skin, stare at my baby’s sweet, sleeping face and be thankful.