1. being cozy
2. finding a stick, and carrying it around for a while
3. proving that whining gets you what you want, even though it hasn't yet. This process will involve performing roughly the same experiment over and over again, and being undaunted by roughly the same result over and over again. I'm hoping that his tenacity will serve him well on future research projects. And that his charm and good looks will prevent future test subjects from murdering him. Don't knock it, it's worked for him so far.
Five is a big birthday. I can't believe he's already five. I can't believe he's only five. Five means that he's definitively not a baby any more, even if he hides behind my legs when spoken to by adults to whom he's lived next door for all of his life. But mostly five means: school. In the fall, he'll be delivered into an institution that will require an ever increasing amount of his time and energy and from which he will not emerge for 12 to 18 years. Poor baby.
Five also means that my life changes. That I am no longer the mother of babies, toddlers, or preschoolers. It's just a transition on the continuum of motherhood, but this chapter is ending and I'm a little mournful about it. Because it's all about me.