You've informed us lately that only family can call you Auggie. All others must refer to you as August. You'll always be my Boo, my Aug-dog, my Precious Peach, my SnuggleUpAugust (said like Big Bird's friend Snuffulupagus) and my baby, so whatever. You can demand everyone else call you Sir Captain Lord Augustus and I'll just cover you in kisses and call you Shmoo-moo as always.
Oh, you're going to hate that when you're 13.
You aren't even here right now. You're off in Ohio with Grandma and Grandpa for a week or so of farm-life and cousins and fresh air and lightening bugs and probably more cake and cookies and juice and movies and stories and balloon fights and mud than you get in the other 50 weeks of the year here. You'll come back taller, louder (is that possible?), and smarter than I remember. You'll think it's because you turned five, but anyone that's been through the birthday threshold more than a dozen times knows that there's no secret switch on the birthday morning that makes you older. Older comes with life experience, and you are rolling in life right now. And probably straw and grass and dirt. God Bless Grandma if she has to try to wash your hair. Can you older your way past that one this week, Boo? That'd be great.
Your math skills are shocking ("I know addition and also minus, even though I'm not supposed to know minus yet.") You read beautifully. You remember and repeat long complex scientific ideas, make connections, and ask smart follow-up questions. You posit theories on how everything works, usually at bedtime. "Mom? I think I know how sinks work. The water comes in a pipe and comes up the pipe and into the faucet and then out the faucet and into the drain and into a new pipe which takes the water away away away. But where does the water come from and how does it go up? Water can't go up. And does the faucet work with a little door or a little squeezer?"
You still never ever ever stop talking. Your teachers have expressed some concern that you're a crazy genius with some attention challenges. They don't want to see your brilliance burnt out by frustration with these challenges; your passionate curiosity neither smothered by rules nor left to run so rampant and untamed that you never learn to reach your clear potential. Your creative and wild perspectives on life make everyone around you tired just from trying to keep up, but they're trying.
You march to your own drum--usually accompanied by your own vocals in a stream-of-conscious narrative that only makes sense in 30 second bits. Time, expectations, rules, routines...these are all open to debate and dismissal. We're trying, too. You're a loosely contained fire, my dear.
You're a show stealer, an attention grabber, a shooting star. You insert yourself in any situation and then make it your own. If it doesn't drive everyone nuts, it may be a great asset some day.
You're a cook, an artist, an architect, a gardener, a scientist, a baby, a big boy, a writer, and a comedian. You're non-stop. You're the world's best snuggler and the worst sleeper. You are curls and smiles and hands on my cheeks for kisses. You are skinny legs and a smudge of food on your face. You are hungry, as you tell us hourly, and you're never ever tired. We're tired enough for five of you.
You're so very loved.
Happy fifth birthday, Shmoo.