Happy 6th Birthday, Tess!

“Is Tess turning 7 this year?”

It was a text from my brother. 

But nope, she’s only six. Though it does feel like she’s been around forever, doesn’t it? 

Not only because she’s spent her whole life getting dragged around in carpools, to basketball games, soccer games, lacrosse games, football games, rugby games, birthday parties, karate classes, playdates, swim lessons, camps and clinics, and tournaments, and all the other places we go.

But also because she’s kind of an old soul. She’s spent five years—six now—staring at faces, studying people, learning, observing, judging. 

If you haven’t been on the receiving end of one of her death stares, then you haven’t spent enough time around her. 

More than one person has compared her to Wednesday Addams. A very blond Wednesday Addams.

Ask her any question, any question at all, and you won’t get an immediate response. She’ll think about it first. I don’t know what she’s thinking about because sometimes the questions are simple yes-or-no’s, like “do you want milk?” “do you have to pee before we leave?” “did you brush your teeth?” “did you get a new library book today?”

She gives you a skeptical, ‘why do you want to know’ look, gazing at you with no smile, no expression at all actually, while she assesses your motives for asking. And then I imagine she weighs the answer carefully in her head, checking off all potential replies and what information would be revealed with each one.

She lives her whole life on a need to know basis, and most people don’t need to know. Snitches get stitches and such.

At one of Nate’s basketball games recently, another dad asked me if Tess was mad at him. And he was serious. 

“I don’t even think she knows who you are,” I thought to myself. But I guess she had given him her infamous Tess glare, and he internalized it for some reason. A grown man. 

I assured him that no, she was not in fact mad at him. If she was mad at anyone, which I don’t think she was, it was at Tighe for failing to give her a dollar for the concession stand before he was called over to help at the scorer’s table. Heaven forbid she suffer through 24-minutes of basketball, plus clock stoppage and halftime, without a ring pop.

But her stoicism, her chill demeanor, her seeming dispassionate deadpan, does not necessarily reflect her mood or her friendliness. 

At school pick-up recently, I sat in my car listening to a podcast and periodically glancing in the side view mirror to watch for the kindergartners—Tess’s class is always the first one to the parking lot. I don’t know if that’s a matter of dismissal procedure or if it’s just the natural inclination of kindergarten teachers to end the day as soon as possible. Those poor, ragged souls must be desperate to get out by 3:30. I know the kids are. 

Either way, Tess always reaches my car first. 

I watched the line of kindergartners reach the parking lot, each one breaking free as they spotted their grown-up’s car. They jump up to high-five the teacher and then tear towards their parents at top speed. One overly gregarious little boy, a chatty little fellow who talks with loads of passion and energy and hand gestures, sprinted to his mom’s car, already yelling updates about his day to her from about thirty yards out.

Tess, meanwhile, parted from her teacher with a simple, poker faced head nod. She stalked across the parking lot, head slightly down, her eyes cast firmly to her right, as though she was casting a spell on one of the parents eagerly awaiting their children. As she approached the car, her eyes met mine in the side view mirror and I braced myself for what could only be a gloomy, perhaps irritated, mood.

“How was your day?” I asked as she pulled open the door behind me. 

“Good,” she said. 

I was surprised to hear a note of cheer in her voice. She shared a few details about her day, about who went home sick, the pictures she colored at rest time, that her class was rewarded because everyone remembered their library books. 

Soon Sam arrived and her report was drowned out by his daily bickering with our 7th grade neighbor we carpool with. When Nate, always the last to the car, arrived, he immediately launched into whatever drama ignited his fire that day—who won the football game at recess, demerit injustices, his academic progress (or lack thereof), or his plans for after school.

So her lack of sharing has been conditioned by a lack of opportunity. 

But, please, don’t feel sorry for her. She gets plenty of attention at home and is plenty spoiled. And she doesn’t want your sympathy anyway. 

She’s too busy. 

Our most self-sufficient child by far, Tess has been voted “Most Enjoyable to Have Home Sick.” By both parents.

Even if she’s actually faking sick. Which she’s admitted to doing. 

Tighe and I can pretty much go about our day as planned—Tighe working on… plumbing parts, I guess, and me tapping away on my laptop—certain that Tess will fend for herself. 

She’ll fetch her own snacks. She’ll prepare her own lunch. She can plan and carry out her own activities. From puzzles to coloring to painting to jewelry-making to reading practice, she’s got it covered. 

And though I’ll admit that clean-up is still a developing skill, I have hope. Her teacher reports that, at school, Tess is usually a step or two ahead of the rest. Not that she’s particularly fast or academically superior, but she’s already seen what needs to be done and taken care of it.

She’s cleaned up her desk. She’s put away her materials. She’s washed her hands. She’s ready and waiting for whatever bullshit a formal kindergarten curriculum is going to throw at her next. 

And one of my favorite Tess qualities is that she’s an amazing big sister. I’m not wishing we’d had more kids after Lou or anything crazy like that, but Tess does a really good job of taking care of him, keeping him safe, fed, and entertained. She plays Paw Patrol, she shares snacks and markers and Legos, she teaches him how to play games or get dressed, she queues up a show for him, she does it all.

So yes, Tess is only six this year. But in so many ways, she’s older than all of us.