Sweet boy,
I was examining the fine, downy swirls of peach fuzz on your neck, cheeks and arms the other day when it occurred to me. One day this stuff is going to be courser. And darker. And most likely, spread across your face in some sort of suave goatee fashion.
Then, to traumatize me further, your wee-lass larynx will decide it’s too cool for uptight school and drop your voice like a hot potato, while simultaneously spitting out phrases like, “yo, don’t be a h8er, I’m gonna go chillax with my peeps…catch ya later, ma!” or “why you gotta go get up in my grill…I don’t need no clean underwear”.
And I’m just not quite sure how I feel about all this.
I now know what all those starry-eyed mamas with baby boys were talking about. You guys have a way of stealing our hearts and permanently wrecking our ability to let go.
I’m smitten. Hook, line, and sinker, baby!
Your baby blues melt me. Your adorably soft hair tickles me {quite literally, at times}, and walking past the bathroom when you’re standing there, faucet trickling, little fingers tugging, faux-hawk spiking, a smile can’t help but spread.
Your deliciously huge belly concerns makes me smile. Your crazy face-pulling cracks me up every time! Your sweet smooches make me swoon. And the way your cheeks and ears still jiggle when you run…I can hardly stand the cuteness.
Oh, and lest we forget…”the eye-brow”. You’ve mastered it and you’re not afraid to use it.
You’re entirely too fantastic for words!
{but I’m still going to try. Darn it}
I love the way you apologize to your sister so sweetly when you wack her on the noodle with a toy car. On purpose, these days. Or bend down and kiss my big toe once you’ve discovered that you’ve ridden over it with your bike. It’s quite endearing, actually. Unsanitary as it may be.
I love the way you drop random lines – “I don’t cry, I’m British” or “that’s totally wicked!” – at the most unlikely of times, and the way you pretend to snuggle on my lap only to drop a stinker and wink. Even the way you speak to Jesus cracks us up. Good thing God has a sense of humor. There’s so much hilarity wrapped up in your little personality that it astounds me. And scares me, just slightly. I’m quite certain your future involves class-clown fulfillment in some capacity {my heart-felt apologies to all upcoming teachers}.
Luckily, you’re very polite. It sort of makes up for the impish audacity. I dragged you out of bed this morning, two hours early, and you thanked me – in your half-asleep state – for putting your clothes on. It made me want to whisk you back into bed and snuggle you so tightly that growing up would most certainly not be an option.
You are such a quick learner. The way you watch your daddy work with his tools, building things and fixing cars, has you enamored with the practice. And practice you do! Like that time you unscrewed the hinges on the bathroom door. Or that time you hammered a nail into your sister’s doorframe. Or that time you tried to help saw that handy little compartment into the dashboard of our new van.
We’re also hoping that with the massive play structure in the back yard, that you’ll refrain from climbing on top of daddy’s car every three days. While your Spiderman costume and Superman cape strike fear into the hearts of bewildered chicken, it doesn’t soften car-to-ground collision.
As a side note, you have perfected the art of booger sculpture – as evidenced by the crusty creation I recently discovered on your wall, usurping your father’s title as Master Booger Flinger. Atta boy.
You’re an animal. In the best sense of the word.
You could quite easily be the wildest little creature I’ve ever laid eyes on. And yet…you’re delightfully tender and surprisingly affectionate at the same time. You’re all {sweet} boy, indeed.
You’re so patient with your {bossy} big sister. Most of the time, that is. The way you allow her to dress you up in pink tutus and bedazzled tiaras, and get pushed around in a baby doll stroller, responding to the name “Penelope”, shows incredible naiveté character on your part.
The knowledge that you can drive the 4-wheeler levels out your, uh…talents quite nicely. You’re a well-rounded little boy.
Speaking of which, we’re hoping to sign a contract with the NFL in the future. You’d make a stellar linebacker. I’m not sure whether it’s the way you eat…or the way you emerged {10 pounds, 6 ounces}…that destined you for big boy success…but you’re well on your way! We keep reminding your sister that playing rough with you now might not be as fun for her in a couple of years {when the size tables have turned}. We’ll keep reminding her. You’re growing fast.
It’s hard to believe that 4 years have flown by so quickly. It seems like just yesterday you were making your presence well-known within my abdominal cavity.
We were just watching the home video of Bean turning 2, and there’s my belly…right in front of the camera…ripe and round, and ready to burst…and now look at you.
A fighter. A little wedgie-pickin’ warrior on a mission. To live life fully!
I’ll never forget looking at you through the cold, hard glass in the PICU, just 10 little days old, begging God to allow us to keep you. You kicked that SVT in the heinie! Way to go, babe!
Thank you for alleviating my initial fear of raising a boy. Growing up in a home filled with estrogen afforded me little opportunity to discover just how cool little boys could be. God knew just the touch of dirt and spice we needed in this family…and you more than deliver.
You’re so stinking awesome.
And I simply love being your mum.
You rock our world, wild thing.
