Malcolm turns five today. He wanted a million things for his birthday, and his requests changed every time he was asked. It depended on what was interesting to him in the moment you inquired. One request never wavered: the dinosaur suit. Anyone who is surprised by this has probably not met this child. Of course he found something larger than life, and equal parts ferocious and goofy.
The rest of his gifts include robot fish, wooden cooking toys and a big jar of craft supplies. Mac understands things by manipulating them. He is a builder and a chef. He delights in using the mixer and measuring ingredients. He doesn’t always want to eat the cake. He’s not that big on carbs. He learns by doing. He builds things to understand how they work and he won’t undertake a job unless he thinks he can do it effectively.
When you give Malcolm your full attention, he glows. It feeds him. He can suck you down a conversation rabbit hole, even when you think you are being very careful. It may or may not be deliberate. I have to warn his babysitters about this at bedtime especially. Bedtime is a great time to ask, “Why don’t dead things poop?” Malcom’s language is just catching up to what he has always understood. I never know what Malcolm is going to think, which is part of what makes conversation with him so enticing. I’m curious.
Malcolm knows what he thinks right away and he’s probably not going to change his mind. Helping him navigate moments where what he thinks doesn’t matter is one of the great challenges of parenting him. He’s extra stubborn when he knows he’s right. He told me once that he noticed that his face looks mean, even when he’s just feeling regular. He goes all in. He has an extra gear. The resulting resting bitch face is not something most preschoolers key in on introspectively. I asked him if that bothered him, and he replied right away, “No, that’s the way God made me.”
His teachers report that he’s well behaved at school and plays with everyone. This is and is not a surprise. Malcolm at home is a wild thing. He jumps out from behind corners and climbs the furniture. He cackles with delight and shakes his bare butt at you. He smells freaking terrible a good portion of the time and I’m never sure why. His fingernails are dirty and his hair is still baby fine and sticks up at odd angles. He has food on his shirt. But Malcolm’s mirror neurons are something to behold. His fashion sense is plugged in to the zeitgeist. When we go somewhere together, he usually picks up the environmental expectations before I do. On the playground, he often assembles a flock of kids around him, and they’re usually playing whatever game he’s into. Malcolm plays family about as often as he plays chase at school. He has a prospect for a wife, and they have agreed to have children, chickens and a greyhound. They have agreed to treat each other “tenderly.” He really is tender. He still snuggles into his grandmothers’ lap and falls right asleep. He likes it when you kiss his hair. When he was a toddler, he used to reach over to the high chair next to him, and hold hands with a peer who often cried during meals. It seemed to help.
I don’t know anyone else like this sunny wrecking ball. That’s a lie. He’s all sorts of things from people I love shaken up and twisted. He has my mother-in-law’s social magnetism. He has my father in law’s mechanical mind. He has my father’s intensity. He has my mother’s warm heart. He has my intuition. He has his father’s sense of mischief. He is all sorts of things I never saw coming. He is my baby. My baby is five, and he’s unfolding into such a force of nature. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Happy 5th Birthday, Malcolm Paul. Heads up, everyone else.
