Back Home Again in Indiana
Without asking if it was okay (it wasn’t), this dude surpassed one hand and turned 6 last week.
Six is such a wild age because it’s so big, but it’s still so little. Naps are now but a distant memory, he’s in kindergarten, and he’s riding the big yellow bus to kindergarten. But he also still wants/needs to be rocked at bedtime, spends most of the night sleeping on our floor, and looks so tiny climbing onto the big yellow bus with a backpack that’s almost as big as he is.
Six is when the older kids at daycare start teaching you bad words and you know beyond a shadow of a doubt you can live on sugar alone. It’s also when your parents wonder if you’re six or sixteen after you master the eye roll without knowing you mastered the eye roll.
Six is writing your name with the “a” now facing the right way but also not having the difference between cities, states, and countries completely figured out just yet. It’s being 1000% confident you can take care of a puppy while still having a meltdown every time you’re asked to clean up your toys by yourself. It’s knowing who Pennywise is without really knowing who Pennywise is.
Six is deciding you want to go to Red Robin for your birthday dinner simply because you drove past it and asked what it was, but actually going to Portillo’s for your birthday dinner instead because a) that’s your favorite restaurant and b) Mom worked really hard getting them to throw you a grand opening for your present this year. . .even if you don’t believe the last part. Evidently, six is also when you get too smart for your parents’ nonsense.