five and a half

When your child reaches five and a half, something shifts. In this episode of Notes, I reflect on the moment when the little-kid years begin to feel fleeting.

Watching my daughter grow into a bigger version of herself makes me want to pause time — to hold onto the stage we’re in just a little longer.

This episode explores motherhood reflection, parenting milestones, childhood growth, and the emotional experience of watching your child grow up.

Topics include parenting transitions, childhood milestones, motherhood identity, and family life.

If you’ve ever stood in a quiet house after school drop-off and felt that strange mix of nostalgia, pride, and heartbreak that comes with watching your child grow up, this episode will probably feel very familiar.

Because sometimes the biggest realizations in parenting arrive in the smallest moments — like standing in the kitchen on a sleepy Monday morning with a cup of coffee, realizing time is moving faster than you ever expected.

"One quiet Monday morning after daylight savings time, I’m standing in my kitchen with a cup of coffee when a thought hits me out of nowhere: my daughter is five and a half years old.

Soon she’ll be six. And then seven. And ten.

And suddenly I realize that a quarter of my entire at-home parenting journey is already gone."

hosted by Kathy Patalsky

healthyhappylife.com

IG: KathyPatalsky + notes.kathy

Transcript

"And suddenly the tiny human is at school and we are just here. Inside these little ghost worlds of play."

 You are listening to Notes with Kathy Patalsky. Today's episode five and a half.

It's Monday morning, the Monday after daylight savings time, so everything feels extra sleepy and groggy. I'm standing in my kitchen, in my pajamas, holding a cup of coffee. The house is quiet because my daughter just left for school.

The first school morning after a very full weekend always jolts you a little. The silence feels unfamiliar, almost uncomfortable, like you forgot what a quiet moment even feels like. Warm yellow sunlight is coming through the windows. The cats are sprawled out in sunbeams. And I'm just standing there sipping my coffee, trying to come up with some deep thought about the world or parenting or my life in it.

Some observation, some inspiration that will pull me into my office. Eyes on the screen, brain alive, ready to work.

But today I just can't. Because there's one thought in my head that I just cannot seem to shake. My daughter is a little over five and a half years old. This summer. She'll be six. A quarter of my parenting life at home is already gone.

That realization takes my breath away. I'm standing there in the kitchen and I feel like I can't breathe. Air sucked in trying to pause time, and the only sentence echoing in my head is this. I'm not gonna be the mom of a little kid anymore. I'm not gonna be the mom of a young child anymore. It feels so strange because it feels like I just got here. For so many years.

I wanted this so badly. I dreamt about it. I aimed for it. Since childhood,  I pictured myself changing diapers and cuddling babies. Then I went through IVF and infertility struggles, imagining the life that I had hoped for, picturing myself holding a baby, chasing a toddler, living inside the chaos of having a little kid. One day I woke up and I was the mom of a small child.

And for the past few years, that has been my identity and I love it. I love who I've become at this phase in my life. I'm the mom who knows how to build a rainbow colored snack plate or set up a tiny afternoon craft project in the backyard, even if that craft involves glitter and scissors and big messes to clean up.

I know how to make my voice high pitched and silly. When I talk to small humans. I have no problem getting on my hands and my knees, eye level, talking kids through some fun project.

And I know every playground and every activity for kids under five in Los Angeles, this has been my world. I could probably write a dissertation on fun things to do on a weekend with a small child in la. And now this phase is shifting. I haven't changed a diaper in years. I don't clean bottles anymore. Pretty soon she'll be going to birthday parties alone and getting dropped off at play dates.

And it feels like I just got on this freeway called Parenting. Wind in My Hair, miles of Road Ahead., Like that scene in cars where it's playing. Life is a highway and Lightning McQueen is just going as fast as he can. And suddenly there's this neon sign flashing. Kathy, your exit ahead. And I'm thinking, wait a second. I just got on this road. It feels unfinished. My house is filled with things for a small child. And maybe it hits me harder because this wasn't something I chose.

Not everyone chooses the length of their parenting journey. Most people probably don't. I wanted at least two chances at this stage. I didn't want my first time being a mom of a small child to also be my last.

When our second IVF attempt didn't work, it planted this extra seed of grief in my heart that I wasn't expecting. Something no one really prepares you for or even talks much about. So every time we finish a stage of her childhood, it feels sharper, more piercing. So final. That's what I'm thinking about when I put my coffee down and start wandering slowly through the house. Noticing everything, the tiny arrangements of stuffed animals on the couch, the cluster of blankets she dragged into the living room to make a fort. The crumpled pile of Play-Doh on the edge of the couch, Play-Doh that used to be soft and rainbow colored, and is now one big lump of gray and brown.

And that's exactly how she likes it. She doesn't even notice, because that means she played with it completely. Then I walk towards the window and see the cat beds. Not really cat beds anymore. They've been pulled out and lined up in a row to be stuffed animal beds.

Tiny stuffed kittens crammed into places where our real cats used to curl up. Our cats lying nearby in Sunbeams. Like they understand that this is the sweetest time of their lives too.

They also love her. That tiny baby they once stared at with wide eyes somehow became this tall little girl. Even Sochi, the cat who used to hate being picked up. Now let's have five and a half year old drag him across the house, wrap him in blankets, and sometimes even put dresses and crowns on him.

He goes completely limp in her arms. Not annoyed, just content.  Then I noticed the pile of gemstones spilled across the floor. And on her craft table, there's this ceramic bunny she carried in from the outside porch because she decided he should live inside. She drew tiny black eyes on him, blue eyelashes. And now he's sitting here in our house where he used to be a law and ornament,  and I stand there looking at it. Like it's some priceless artifact from the museum collection of Rosalie. And over on the coffee table, there's a bug house. We're currently still taking care of a pet fly with one wing.

It's still alive. I can't even believe it. I know how ridiculous that sounds, but that's the world that we're living in. Mr. White sits there next to the bug house, staring at the fly, like it's the most fascinating creature on earth. He looks exactly like me staring at all these piles of toys.  And suddenly the tiny human is at school and we are just here. Inside these little ghost worlds of play. And I'm supposed to be happy to get a break, right? But instead I miss that tiny human running down the hallway in a cape or a glitter dress. The tiny human who got too hot in the 90 degree weather over the weekend and decided the smartest solution was to just take off all her clothes and run through the spray of the garden hose outside.

And I'm standing there in this quiet house realizing how fast everything moves, how every stage disappears. And I knew that going in, but I didn't know how it would feel. I knew I would cry putting away the newborn clothes. I didn't know I'd cry, putting away toddler clothes or preschool clothes. Every stage ends, and I'm standing here wondering how I'm supposed to survive losing this identity that I found: the mom of a small child.

But then there was this moment over the weekend, we went on a tour of a wildlife rescue center. My daughter has been obsessed with all things wild cats lately. We've gone to exotic cat rescue centers that are two hours away, just so she can catch a glimpse of a bobcat and a ser and a white tiger.

And so today we ventured out to this flashlight safari. My daughter was the one who used to hold my hand at every turn. If she wasn't holding my hand, she would be asking me to pick her up and squeeze her close. Eyes at the same eye level. Staring now that the world are cheeks pressed together, warm and soft. But this time she walked ahead. Right out in front of the group. Following alongside the tour guide. She wanted to be the first to see the porcupine, the alligator, the lynx, the raven, the monkeys, the bobcat.

She marched forward to see them all, all by herself. Looking ahead, not once even looking back. At one point, my husband leaned over and joked, well, she doesn't need us anymore. I shook my head and I expected to be sad, but I wasn't. I felt proud. Because she was out there in the world marching towards the things she wanted to see.

And in that moment I realized that yes, I'm desperately gonna miss these tiny years. I already do, but the fear that she's growing away from me isn't actually true. We're not growing apart. She's not drifting away. We're growing together, and every step she takes forward in her life is something we walked through together first.

Everything she carries into the world.

Her curiosity, her fearlessness, her sense that the world is safe enough to explore, those things didn't appear out of nowhere. They were built here. In this house in my arms. In those ghost worlds of play. In the glitter and Play-Doh and stuffed animal beds.

So yes, one day she will leave this house. That's part of the story, but the foundation she walks on when she leaves, that part never goes away. 📍 

And knowing that makes it a little easier to stand here in the quiet house and let time move forward. Without holding my breath.

     📍  📍  📍  📍  📍  📍  📍  📍  📍 This was Notes by Kathy Patalsky

For more, follow Kathy on Instagram or visit healthyhappylife.com