The thing about five is… well, the thing is, when Abigail turned five, five seemed OLD. So old! Our baby was five!

Five isn’t a little thing. Five is the age when people start asking what school you go to, whether you like your teacher. The word kindergarten gets thrown around a lot. Five is the age (or anyway, the size) when you have to stop buying “baby” clothes brands and start shopping in the kid section. It’s the first year you can count by fives to your age. (It would sound like this: “Five.”)

But the thing is, five doesn’t seem so old anymore. Five. It’s just a little more than four, a little taller, with a bit more self-control and a bigger imagination.

Even eight—and Abigail will be eight in twenty-three days, she would have you know—doesn’t sound so old right now. Sure, eight is almost halfway to grown up and (theoretically) moved out, but only almost. And only halfway.

I’d like to think I’m more realistic now, not just in denial about my babies being not-babies. Because I’m don’t want to focus on the growing up—how big! and how old! and remember when they were little?—to the point that we forget to enjoy the childhood that is right now.

So: Five. We’re back. And I’m not so anxious about it this time around.