My little man turns three this weekend. THREE! In the whole scheme of things, three is still a baby, but when he's losing the baby fat, letting us know when he has to "GO POTTTTTTTEEEEEEEEEEEEE", and he can say, "I sorry, My sister Bella!" each and every time he's transgressed against her, I feel like he's a big kid.
And a big kid is so awesome for him to be... he is so stubborn and determined to do what he wants, when he wants, and with as little helps as he wants... he's ready for some more room to grow.
But MOMMA IS NOT.
He still wakes up sweaty and damp, holding his "Lob-ee" (Lovey) in one hand with both arms outstretched for his momma to get him from his crib. He's borderline stunting his growth sleeping in his crib (he looks like a Great Dane in a Bishon's crate), but he has never once climbed out, fought us about a crib, or looked interested in "a big boy bed" so why bother? He's comfy, safe, and sleeping.
He still loves to pick out a diaper - always Mickey Mouse - but the decision of Mickey holding balloons, Mickey hugging Pluto, or Mickey with jazz hands is quite a dilemma each diaper change. Sometimes I throw "Mickey briefs" in the mix, but those are usually tossed a half-second before the Mickey with balloons. My boy is a boy's boy, but he loves those jazz hands.
He still wants milk before bed. His preferred method to sip is to curl into your lap with one hand on yours and just as your leg falls asleep he gives a milky kiss that makes you pray time stops. Right. Now.
He needs help with his shoes and shirts, but yesterday he got a pair of pants on by himself. He jolted off the floor with a "I DID IT!" (break out the jazz hands, thanks, Mickey Mouse) and smiled a killer set of baby teeth. And I teared up as we high-fived. If he doesn't need help with his pants, no one else will. It's over. Until Mr. and I are both 80 and I'm helping him with his, but that is so not the same. At all.
He needs to constantly be reminded of the boundaries, rules, and standards in our house, but he also knows when he breaks them and a set of shiny blue eyes and a single tear tell me he has remorse as deep in his soul as I do. I hate to disappoint and he does, too.
Xander has stolen my heart in three short years. It's exhilarating to think what lies ahead in our relationship and lives, but in the middle of the night when he needed his momma (last week), it hit me.
I already hate his wife.
And a big kid is so awesome for him to be... he is so stubborn and determined to do what he wants, when he wants, and with as little helps as he wants... he's ready for some more room to grow.
But MOMMA IS NOT.
He still wakes up sweaty and damp, holding his "Lob-ee" (Lovey) in one hand with both arms outstretched for his momma to get him from his crib. He's borderline stunting his growth sleeping in his crib (he looks like a Great Dane in a Bishon's crate), but he has never once climbed out, fought us about a crib, or looked interested in "a big boy bed" so why bother? He's comfy, safe, and sleeping.
He still loves to pick out a diaper - always Mickey Mouse - but the decision of Mickey holding balloons, Mickey hugging Pluto, or Mickey with jazz hands is quite a dilemma each diaper change. Sometimes I throw "Mickey briefs" in the mix, but those are usually tossed a half-second before the Mickey with balloons. My boy is a boy's boy, but he loves those jazz hands.
He still wants milk before bed. His preferred method to sip is to curl into your lap with one hand on yours and just as your leg falls asleep he gives a milky kiss that makes you pray time stops. Right. Now.
He needs help with his shoes and shirts, but yesterday he got a pair of pants on by himself. He jolted off the floor with a "I DID IT!" (break out the jazz hands, thanks, Mickey Mouse) and smiled a killer set of baby teeth. And I teared up as we high-fived. If he doesn't need help with his pants, no one else will. It's over. Until Mr. and I are both 80 and I'm helping him with his, but that is so not the same. At all.
He needs to constantly be reminded of the boundaries, rules, and standards in our house, but he also knows when he breaks them and a set of shiny blue eyes and a single tear tell me he has remorse as deep in his soul as I do. I hate to disappoint and he does, too.
Xander has stolen my heart in three short years. It's exhilarating to think what lies ahead in our relationship and lives, but in the middle of the night when he needed his momma (last week), it hit me.
I already hate his wife.
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