You turned four this week! You’ve definitely transformed from a toddler into a little boy, an articulate and curious and engaged little boy. You’ve mostly outgrown the “why?” phase, and now you come up with your own answers, often very inventive ones. You’re a charming little conversationalist and storyteller. You love trains and tracks, dinosaurs and horned vipers. You’re fiercely loyal to and protective of the people you care about.

The person to whom you’re most loyal is your little sister. You’ve gotten into trouble for yelling at your parents when they discipline her. You like to pretend that you’re a king, and she is always your queen. One day, I was in the hallway holding her while you went to the bathroom, and Bishop ran by and swatted her leg with his tail. She cried out more, I think, in surprise than pain. You burst out of the bathroom, pants around your ankles, face scrunched up into your “mean” look. “Who hurt my queen?!” You were ready to do some damage.

You’re bossy with her too, a miniature parent who threatens her with time outs and tells her to look at you when you’re scolding her. Your parents discourage this behavior, of course, but you want her to be good and you want her to be safe.

Last fall, I babysat you and your sister and your friend Nick. (He called me “Monet” because he couldn’t say my name, apparently. The previous time I’d met him, he called me “Mo-nick.”) In the middle of supper he informed me suddenly that I was a mean, bad person, because earlier I’d promised a time out if you guys didn’t stop fighting over a toy. I didn’t even have to defend myself against his accusation because you did it for me. Looking perplexed, you explained, in a very reasonable tone, that you had to be nice to each other, and if you weren’t, there would be consequences. I was just trying to remind you to get along and not fight. I was pretty proud of you, not just for being my champion, but for recognizing your own responsibility. Your parents have raised you well.

You have an uncannily keen memory and often mention books or movies or conversations that took place months ago. A few weeks ago, you told a story about two birds who ended up trapped in your house after they flew down the chimney (stovepipe?). Grandma told me later that she thought you were indulging in a flight of fancy until you started to ask your dad for corroboration. “And do you ‘nember I was scared? And where did I hide?” Your dad said you hid in his bathroom. “Yes, I did, and did you chase the birds out?” Yes, he did. “And we made sure no more birds could get in. But what did you do, Daddy? I don’t ‘nember.” (I don’t “nember” the answer to that question, but I bet you do.) “And ‘nember what Mommy said?” No, said your dad; he didn’t remember that Mommy had said anything. “Yes,” you pronounced. “She said, ‘You birds stay out of my house from now on!’” Your dad started laughing: “That’s right, she did.” And then he told us the whole episode had taken place last summer and he’d all but forgotten it. Obviously, you hadn’t.

You also remember every book I’ve ever read you. Where the Wild Things Are is a favorite, and for awhile you asked for There’s a Nightmare in My Closet and then Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel. Then you’ll request something we read once or twice, months ago: “the book with the spider” (Miss Spider’s Tea Party), or “the one with the bee.” That’s Baby Bear Discovers the World, and you can relate to the scene where the bees sting Baby Bear on the nose because that happened to you last summer–right on the nose.

You and I still love the zoo. Last spring, a new reptile house opened, and it’s one of your favorite places (mine, too). You’re mesmerized by the snakes in particular. Your dad and grandpa aren’t thrilled about this, but I am. You’ve learned about horned vipers from Grandma’s snake book, and you’re very disappointed that there are no horned vipers or rattlesnakes (no venomous snakes at all) at our zoo. But you know there are California king snakes, and you know which subspecies. You also love the dragons–bearded and Komodo. You don’t care that they don’t fly or breathe fire; you just like seeing dragons.

You like to pretend you’re a dragon or a horned viper or Goliath of Gath. You wear your ferocious, “mean” face, but sometimes you decide to be a “nice” viper or dragon or Goliath instead. You love playing David and Goliath, being the giant and falling to the floor in feigned death. Your sister, who emulates you in every way (including standing in front of the toilet), falls down with you.

Speaking of bathrooms, you once said of your sister, during the early days of her potty training, “She can’t pee! She doesn’t have a peanut!”

You’re one of my favorite people, and I’m glad I’ve gotten to share so much of this last year with you. I’m excited to watch you continue to grow and to share more adventures with you!

I love you!

Aunt Monique