brought to you by the number five
September 6, 2006
This entry as “written” by my fifth son who is five years old on what it is like to be five.
I am five years old. It’s tough being five years old.
There are so many rules. And they are all dumb. Like my clothes, what is this matching thing? And why can’t I wear my Superman cape everywhere? All clothes should come with a superhero accessory.
Why can’t I just wear my underwear all day, backwards like I like it. I don’t understand why the cool pictures are on the butt of the underwear where I can’t see them. It makes more sense for the picture to be in the front and those weird holes to go in the back, so the farts can escape.
Did you notice I said butt and fart? butt fart butt fart butt. I can make noises that sound just like farts with my armpit. Wanna see? No? Well, maybe later. My older brother showed me how to do it. He is so cool. Sometimes he lets me play with him in his room. If I promise to be quiet and just sit there, without talking to him, he will sometimes let me watch him build his Lego sets. But I am not allowed to touch them ever.
Five is a fun age because I can still fit on my mom’s lap and sometimes my Dad will carry me up on his shoulders and I feel like I’m flying through the air. Five is good because I can tell people how old I am with just one hand, in case I am too busy to talk and I am holding something important in my other hand, like a stick.
I can ride a bike really good now and I go for walks with my Mom and she lets me ride my bike on the road, like a big kid. But I get mad when my older brothers come with us because they ride their bikes fast and I pedal really hard with my legs, but I can’t catch up with them. That’s a not good thing about being five. I can do lots of things, but I can’t do them as well as I want to do them. And sometimes I scream and stamp my feet.
I know how to write my name and love to write it all the time. On paper, on walls, on the floor, on the driveway, on my body. My Mom doesn’t like it when I write on the walls or the floor. Even when I write it somewhere really small, she notices. I don’t know how she does it. She said she has eyes in the back of her head. Sometimes I pretend that I am brushing her hair, but really I am looking for those eyes.
I am allowed to write on my body, since it is my own body, but only on the places that are covered by my clothes. But that’s not as fun because no one can see my name! My mom says when I grow up I can get my name tattooed across my forehead if I want. I might do just do that. But being a grown up is a long way away.
Things are hard about being five too. Getting a glass of water from the sink means getting a chair or stool from across the room and dragging it all the way over to the cabinet to get out a glass, and then dragging the chair over to the sink the entire time risking dropping the glass on the floor and breaking it. No I can not make two trips. I am busy. Doing lots of stuff, okay?
Most of the time it works out okay. My mom does not like it when I drop the glasses on the floor and break them. I don’t know why it is such a big deal. We can always go buy new ones.
But sometimes things go wrong. Horribly, terribly wrong. Like when I tried to put my dinner plate in the sink without a stool, because I am big you know, and it slipped and fell onto my head. And I had food in my hair and mustard from my hamburger dripping down on my face. My brothers were all shouting, “Get the camera.” And my mother? She is laughed so hard that she could barely hold the camera steady enough to focus the picture.
But then I laughed too. Because being five is funny too.
That’s the end. I have nothing else to say.
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