Happy birthday, my dear Kovy. You are now four years old. It’s hard to believe it. How the time has flown! Another year gone by, with many milestones mastered and a whole lot of progress behind you. Certainly, it’s a time for celebration. But just as certainly, it’s a time for reflection. A time for introspection.

My sweet little Kovy, you have taught me so many things. I have learned so much from you.

Iz kumt mir NOT. So often, we take things for granted, expecting them to arrive at set intervals. Developmental milestones, especially, but life’s daily gifts, too—breathing, walking, talking, and so on. Kovy, you have taught me not to take anything for granted. Every step, every word, every everything—is a precious endowment from Above. We must appreciate it. We must relish it and savor the moment, each time we experience it, for there are so many others that cannot, and may never.

Don’t give up. Persevere. How many tens (hundreds?) of therapy sessions did it take for your muscles to be sufficiently strengthened for you to roll over? How many years before you took your first step? You kept at it, never stopping (I think sometimes it was because your physical therapist wouldn’t stand for it!), even though it was so very hard for you, so tiring, so draining, so demanding. You took things in stride (literally!) and did what you had to, until you mastered that skill.

Kovy, I learned not to let failures, or setbacks, hold me back from accomplishing something. You are a living embodiment of “Sheva yipol tzaddik, vekam;” -- although a righteous person may fall many (lit. seven) times, he gets up. This can also be interpreted on a different level—because he’s fallen, he gets up; the stumbling is a stepping-stone, a catalyst, for his success. You learn from every situation, from every difficult experience, and use it as a tool to ultimately succeed.

Smile. It can melt the toughest of hearts, and sway the gruffest of people, especially when you do it. From friends, neighbors, teachers, therapists, acquaintances, doctors, even strangers passing by, or fellow shoppers at the supermarket—you are always ready to disarm them completely by flashing your famous smile, usually accompanied by a shy little wave, which is most often returned in kind. Particularly because we live “IN- town,” this middah is quite rare; people generally mind their own business, without that friendly acknowledgement or greeting. You, Kovy, apparently have no qualms about disregarding this unspoken rule; you greet each person with a genuine smile.

Speak the language of the heart. You are a man of so few words, but you never cease to communicate so effectively, so lovingly, so succinctly. On that rare occasion where you may do something wrong, you always look up at me, your deep chocolate eyes connecting with mine, as you gently lay your hand on my shoulder, and rub up and down, with a pat thrown in for good luck. You blow a kiss and lay your head on my shoulder, clearly saying, “I’m sorry, Mommy,” wordlessly, genuinely, sincerely.

Or that time I picked you up from an afternoon at your cousins’ house, and I was immediately enveloped by your chubby arms squeezing me hard around my legs, an “I missed you!” hug.

Or when I kiss you good night, you take my hand in yours and rub it on your pajama-covered tummy, in a request for, “Please rub my tummy one more time,” and when I’ve done so enough times, you sleepily point to the door and smile slightly through drowsy but content eyes, saying, “Thanks, Mommy, you can go now.”

Or when you hold up your artistic masterpiece, a slightly crumpled paper half-covered with multi-colored scrawls and marks, I, of course, ooh and aah over it. You beam proudly, accepting my praise and accolades, “I knew you would love it!” Indeed, Kovy, one need not speak words aloud for them to be clearly heard, and deeply felt.

Hold on to your sense of humor. Some moments are meant to be funny; some are not. You strive to keep the sunshine in every one of them. You have such a cute way of responding to even regular questions, such as the time I asked you if you prefer being called by your full name, Avraham Yaakov, (as I held out one hand) or by your nickname, Kovy (as I held out the other hand). I waited for you to respond by tapping one hand or the other, indicating your preference. You instead declared, eyes twinkling, “Aba!” Another time, your aunt wanted to snap a photo of you, and commanded, “Smile!” You complied, but at the last minute, decidedly stuck out your bottom lip in a pout, but your eyes remained smiling, attesting to your good-natured mischievous streak. Since then, that pose is known as your “funny face,” which quickly dissolves a rough moment into a laughing, carefree one, much like a tense situation released in a quick rush of breath.

Daven. From a young age, you have shown an uncanny fervor for all things spiritual. Whenever you see a bencher, siddur, sefer, or even a mundane booklet, you hold it and shuckle and sway, pretending to daven. You have the cutest way of chiming in when we say Shema together at bedtime, filling in the sounds you know. When we were having a seudah in a simcha hall that is also used as a shul, you grasped the soft velvet cover of the bimah and repeatedly kissed it—each time you passed! The reverence with which you state where Aba is during the day, “Aba tool-tool,” (Aba is in shul ) is moving. That statement is usually followed by an earnest plea, “Me, me!” (I want to go to shul, too!)

In school, you made a “siddur,” with picture representations of each tefillah song of the class davening routine. On the cover is a picture of you, holding an open siddur, standing by a paroches-covered Aron Kodesh. You are looking upward. Your morah was amazed at the picture, because she had not told you to look up; somehow, you sensed the kedusha of the place, and your gaze was drawn that way. Kovy, your sincerity is an inspiration for me.

An understanding. Certain pesukim and parts from tefillah have taken on new meaning. “…Hameichin mitz’adei gaver,” Hashem prepares the steps of man. Watching your progress in the area of walking has given me a tangible and visible understanding of this bracha we say each day. “Im amarti, matah ragli, chasdecha Hashem yis’adeini,” When I have said my feet have faltered, Hashem has supported me. Kovy, you’ve gone from being strapped into a stander to strengthen your legs so you could one day bear weight on them, to painstakingly learning to use a walker, to now, baruch Hashem, literally running on your own, unsupported—yet always, you’ve been supported by Hashem.

Ivdu es Hashem besimcha. Rare is the occasion when you are not smiling. As a happy-go-lucky little boy, the simcha you radiate is palpable. Also, you love music. “Ein adam shar shira elah mitoch simcha vetov leivav,” one only sings a song out of happiness and contentment. It may be during z’miros at the Shabbos table, or when you hear music, or during davening—you sway as you “sing” by vocalizing in tune. You love chiming in with the sounds you know in the song. When you are “up to something” with your big brother, I always hear you laughing. It’s easy to get you excited about things—it doesn’t take long before you are caught up in the exhilaration of the occasion.

Empathize. You sense when someone is feeling down, sad, or upset, and try to show you care by offering a hug, a kiss, or an understanding smile. (Some relatives take advantage of this, and pretend to cry when they want a kiss from you!) When you see your baby cousin crying, as most babies are wont to do, you become noticeably agitated, then try to placate her by tickling her, offering a pacifier, or saying, “Sh, sh!” as you rock her. You try to get others’ attention so they can help the child in need. In a recent educational evaluation, it describes, “Kovy has been observed to comfort peers in distress.”

Kasheh lich’os, veno’ach lirtzos. You are slow to anger, and quick to be appeased. Zu middas chassidus—certainly a righteous trait, one that not many individuals possess. Your general even-temperament and impish smile are your hallmark; when something does happen to upset you, it is not long before the sun shines through the clouds again.

Kovy, on your fourth birthday, I pray Hashem will continue to shower you with these gifts, and brachos ad bli dai. May you continue to be a source of nachas and inspiration for me, for us—your family, for the extended mishpacha, and for all of Klal Yisrael.

Love always,
Mommy