HELLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO crew of the Thursday Thirteen. Do you remember being five? I do not. I vaguely remember my kindergarten teacher trying to sweet-talk me into taking a nap, and I was no napper. That’s about all I remember. I’m hoping that by keeping this blog, I’ll be able to help my kids keep more of their memories than I have. It could work.

Wacky Boy will soon be five. He is at a delicious age. It is my favorite age of his, so far. It is also the age where he will not stop running — around the playground, too close to busy streets, all through the house. He terrifies me, but I don’t want to hold him back. (Unless it’s by a busy street, then I just snatch him up and refuse to put him down.) Otherwise, run, run, run. Run, Wacky Boy, run. But slow down long enough to let me smooch on you and cuddle you tight, because you’re just the right size, right here, right now.

THIRTEEN THINGS I ADORE ABOUT WACKY BOY

13. He’s a towhead, and his eyes are blue and ginormous. He lights up when he’s telling you a story, “One time I stepped in the toilet. On purpose. Yeah. Then you and Dad had to dry off my feet. Then after a couple of days, I keep telling everyone the story, even the people in class.”

12. After I pick him up from preschool, we cannot head right for the door, or for the park. Oh, no. We have to stop in the hall first, where he carefully, piece by piece, unloads his canvas bag and shows me all of his art and projects. His name, carefully spelled out. The St. Patrick’s Day hat, bedazzled with glitter and glued-on foam rubber geometric shapes. (His teacher is a brilliant, talented artist. I love her. He loves her. She loves him. She loves me, because I volunteer and am not afraid of paint clean-up duty. Love, enough for everyone, all the way around.) Today it was the “Bird Builds a Nest” book, with a real piece of yarn glued in, and “robin eggs” — he dipped his thumb into blue paint to make these.

“Everything I do, I do for you, Mom,” he tells me.

11. He is sincere.

10. He is a good friend to his buddies, loyal and protective.

9. He fights with his sister but cannot bear to be away from her.

8. I adore our afternoons alone — we go to the library, the park, the store. We read, we watch movies, we garden. My husband says he remembers being three so clearly because his older brother and sister were in school and he had his mom all to himself.

7. He is snuggly and affectionate and is never far from my side. I love this, because his sister, who is nearly eight, is already so independent and off she goes. I know this won’t last long, with my son, but I hope it does. I’d like for it to last forever. And I hope my daughter isn’t always so… grown-up. I want to baby her some more. She will have none of it.

6. I love Wacky Boy’s clothes — all of it hand-me-downs from friends, family and his sister. The surfer boy shirts, the Hawaiian shirts, the jeans, the fifteen pairs of blue sweats. The Oshkosh hoodies; the plain, one-pocket tees; the multi-pocketed khakis. All boy.

5. “Pink, blue, green or red, Mom. Those are your choices.”

4. He started a “Good Parent Contest” last week. Whenever his dad or I do something that pleases him (take him to the aquatic park; give him two cereal bars, not just one; read to him) he gives us a post-it that his sister has decorated. They say “Awesome!” “Cool, Dude!” “Nice!” He also gives these rewards to his auntie and sister. I feel like a huge success as a parent, since this contest began. I have amassed close to two dozen. I will win this contest.

“Good that he’s already learning the power of positive reinforcement,” his dad says. Which leads me to…

3. The child is a genius.

2. He loves books and sometimes stays up until 11 at night, reading. This is a little crazy, but he will not be deterred.

1. I love his birthday because I remember exactly how he looked, exactly how I felt, five years ago — the first time I laid eyes on him, all 9 pounds, 6 ounces of him, red and yelling. His wet, plastered-down blond curls, his fists tightly clenched, his perfection. And I held him, and he was — he is — my very own.

Happy birthday, sweet son. Here’s to many more.