Triplets -- and the Other Sister

Six months of silence ends today.

There are four girls in M's preschool class. There are 18 kids total.

The three cuties above have been close for almost two years. 

The one on the left will be in M's kindergarten class next year, and assuming nobody moves, they will be together for the remainder of their elementary years.

The one on the right is M's little buddy and her soccer pal and I anticipate they will be friends for a while, even with them going to different schools in the fall.

They are the triplets.

The "other sister" is another little girl who, according to her teacher, often gets excluded from the fun.

At conferences last year, M's teacher told us that B really liked M and hinted that it would be nice if M took her under her wing and facilitated an integration of sorts, since it seemed that M was the bridge that joined the two parties.

D and I touched the subject with her. But after bit of discussion, we both decided that at the end of the day, she was only five, and that as long as she wasn't being mean and being obviously exclusive, which wasn't the case as we understood it, she couldn't -- nor should she have to -- shoulder the weight of the world at such a young age. 

I still stand by that; albeit not very firmly. Truth is, I wobble around quite a bit on the topic.

Yesterday M's teacher told me that she had a talking to with the girls last week because they straight up told B that she couldn't play with them. B came up to her in near tears :(  

Today, the Triplets were born....and of course the "other sister" too.

Did they realize what was going on there? Or was this their way of including her?

Really? 

Already? 

God Help Me

Not Cool

I'm chiming in tonight for a quick post because I need to get some things off my chest.

M had a play date today with a little buddy from preschool. It just so happens that this little girl has an older sister that has been in J's class for the last couple of years. She is a year younger, but because of their mixed classroom, they have been together for a bit. Both of these girls are the daughters of Jacob's upcoming 4th and 5th grade teacher.

We like this family. My words in no way reflect ill-will towards them or their values and teachings.

After picking M up from their house this afternoon, and while we were in the car, she told J that Older Sister had said that she didn't like him. After a little bit of prodding, M told us how the conversation went down:

Apparently Younger Sister mentioned that she wished J was there. Then M stopped, and it was here that J asked her, "Did Older Sister say she hated me?" M proceeded to say that, "No, she just said that she didn't like you after Younger Sister said she wished you were there."

When I looked in the rear view mirror, J had what appeared to be a look that said, "REALLY???" He uttered a half-hearted laugh in what I perceived to be an attempt to hide his disappointment.

I would be lying if my blood didn't boil at this point. J, like any other kid, has his share of quirks. J can be loud. J can be disruptive in class. But I am positive that he never did anything to her personally that would cause her to have those feelings towards him. Not because he's a saint, but because for the most part he doesn't pay that much attention to girls.

Once I pulled myself together I told him that Older Sister was probably just being silly; maybe just playing around with the younger girls. I told him that sometimes people do things to try to be cool.

His response: "Well, it's not cool."

This was the time, I knew, to say something meaningful. Instead, everything coming out of my mouth sounded like Generic-ese: I told him that as long as he knew in his heart that he didn't do anything to her to bring about those feelings, then it's her problem and not his; I told him that everybody isn't going to always like him. Blah. Blah. Blah.

And then, finally, out came what I know to be true: "If she (or anybody else for that matter) makes the bad choice of not liking you, she is denying herself of your friendship....and that's her bad because you are AWESOME!"

It's not original or patent-worthy, but definitely true.

I don't have the time, desire, or credentials to delve into the mind of a seven year old. I realize that after 40 years I may have forgotten a few things about being that young and that her words could have come from a place that I no longer know exists. This isn't so much about Older Sister as it is about this guy:

At nine, J is still somewhat encased within the wall of innocence. The fact that it crumbled a little today is just life being played out and merely the start of the destruction. Life will continue to happen and the wall will be shaken over and over, its foundation determining whether it will eventually break and come tumbling down or stand strong against the elements.

As his parents, D and I hold the responsibility to build a foundation for him; one that will hold him up against life's elements no matter how shaky they become. I hope this is a place that empowers him to be strong when he feels weak and brave when he is scared; a peaceful retreat for the times when he is wronged; a fortress that keeps negativity and self-doubt otuside; and a constant reminder that he can do more than he is capable of.

But just like any structure, it isn't built in one day. It's a work in progress. It takes time. It takes patience. It takes life lessons.

Today's incident could be classified as a life lesson. And it stung. As they sometimes do, it stung. It stung him and it stung me -- maybe more than it did him, because I'm not sure one can be immune when it comes to seeing their children hurt.

NOT COOL, Older Sister...NOT COOL!

Bribes

That right there was my Facebook status update tonight. It proved to be popular with many likes and a few I love yous.

I felt a little guilty at first, which is probably why I posted it. But as it turns out, Momma knows best. He had some homework to finish up that I knew would become a fight after running three miles. Not to mention the time. Sure enough...it took him a little over an hour to get his thoughts in place and onto paper.

He was adamant about going to practice. I love his work ethic, especially since he's been going nonstop since 7:45 this morning, but something had to give today.The deal was that if he skipped cross country and finished his homework by 7:30, I'd take him out for ice cream. We shook on it and he finished with about 20 minutes to spare.

Okay. Okay...I wasn't really in the mood to drag us out to one of the coldest parks in Olympia and wait for an hour while he ran. But those are just semantics.

Dennis has been gone all week and I'm tired! As we speak, the kids are fast asleep, the homework is done, and their tummies are full -- of the yumminess that is an Oreo McFlurry.

Like I said, Semantics!

Meet Alan

Alan is a seven-year-old boy that wears a size 6x, likes Tonka trucks, and Musical toys. I came across Alan at the mall one evening on a solo trip there. Out of all the kids, he's the one that caught my eye.

In my mind, Alan is Asian and chubby; probably pretty smart. Like you, I don't know Alan. If one day our paths cross, we'll walk by one another not knowing that our lives had intersected once before on the road leading to the Salvation Army's Giving Christmas Tree.

That this little card is my only tangible connection to Alan doesn't diminish the pleasure it gives me to have picked him.

Growing up, my mom would take a couple of names from the Christmas tree at church so we could help out a family in need. It's something that I remember fondly and look forward to each year.

In the past, the mom's group I belong to adopts a family. Instead we went with a "Keeping Kids Warm this Winter" theme and collected blankets, sleepers, hats, booties for kids of all ages. As usual, we had a little shindig yesterday morning to gather everything together. As much as I liked doing it, it didn't give anything for J to do like in years past where at least one of the families had a kid his age to whom he could get something. Giving away pajamas or sweaters to random kids doesn't affect him in any way, shape. or form. He cares nothing about pajamas or sweaters. He does, however, care about toys.

So I told him about Alan. I would be fibbing just a little if I said he was completely thrilled about the prospect. But not all hope was lost. During the purging of his mostly Happy-Meal-toy bin, he decided that Alan would be a good recipient for the ones he didn't want {sigh}. Once at Target he helped search for the items we did want for him -- Alan that is -- though I think it was more to be done with it and head over to the Toy Story aisle where he could salivate over stuff he wanted.

He managed to find something for M as well and then lent his assistance in choosing a bag for Alan's gift while he engaged me in an in-depth conversation about earthquakes. Before leaving we stopped at the snow globe area where he played for a bit.

Next up was the Dollar Store where he finally got something for himself: A new writing pad.

And so it turned out to be a nice evening after all.

Alan got his toys. J got his writing pad and a milk shake and fries at Mickey D's for being a good sport. And I got to make a deposit into the memory bank of a little boy that hopefully one day, when he's a man and has his own kids, will frequent often to make withdrawals from.

I'm Not That Mom

There, I said it. Not that that's the first time I've said it. I say it a lot to myself and every once in a while to an actual living, breathing person. Usually I'm referring to something specific. The reason today's outburst is different is that it's not specific; it refers to all aspects of my parenting. And you know what? It feels good; it's like an imaginary weight has been lifted.

I have a wonderful neighbor. She is someone that I know I can always count on to help me out in a time of crisis. Yesterday her son came and rang my doorbell while M was napping because he got wind that J had minimum days all week. At the time, J and M were playing nicely in the backyard while I was trying to get dinner prepped. As soon as he heard the doorbell, however, our backyard wasn't enough for him. He wanted to go outside and ride his bike with his buddy. But I wasn't ready to go out yet. I needed to finish what I was doing first. She, my neighbor, offered to take him as she usually does but that puts me on a time constraint and then M is left alone and it only makes things getting done more of a task.

I said no, that he'd have to wait until I was done. They left and it it all got done, as it always does, but with a lot of chatter of, "can we go yet?" When I got otuside my neighbor told me that her house is a mess but the kids want to play outside and what can she do?

For the billionth time in my almost-seven years of mommyhood I thought to myself, "I'm not that mom." For probably the first time, my next thought was, "and I don't care."

I can't keep up with the perfect-mom Joneses. No shame in my game. I'm not a slave to my kids. I've always known that. I may have been sucked up in that world for a while but I'm not kidding anyone.

I've heard all the PC cliches about how they're only little once; how the house will be clean and quiet once they're gone, and so on and so forth. I get it. I do. But it's also been said that if momma ain't happy; ain't nobody happy, and that too I get.

Every resident of this household knows that cleanliness will get you far. I love my kids and I would do anything for them....but the laundry has to be folded, the dishes washed, and dinner cooked before I do.

So I'll be adding "find balance" to my to-do list. Because while I may not be "That Mom," the mom that misses out on her kids' childhoods because she's obsessing over a dirty floor, that mom, is not one I aspire to be either.

Short-Timer's Syndrome

You know that feeling when you've put in your two weeks' notice at a job? It's only two more weeks but they're the longest two weeks of your life and instead of doing the best job you can so as to leave a good and lasting impression you just do crappy work? And at the end of a long unproductive day you brush it off by telling yourself, "Hey, I'm leaving anyway." Well, maybe you don't. Maybe I'm just a slacker in that sense. But if you do know what I'm talking about, then you will know exactly how I've been feeling the last couple of weeks.

School starts tomorrow and I think I'm pretty safe when I say that J is ready. I know I am. While he's been telling anyone that will listen how many "sleeps" until he goes back to school; I've secretly been counting as well.

I know that I should be making these last few days of summer as memorable as can be for him, but after almost three months of summer vacation, this last stretch has been rough and as a result we haven't been playing nice lately. I'm not real sure if it's him acting up more or me just losing my patience. I don't know what it is but I do know that it's time.

At 8:29 tomorrow morning we begin a new phase in our lives and we're both excited to see what lies ahead.

By 3:17 tomorrow afternoon, I'll be ready to give him a hug and tell him how much M and I missed him throughout the day.

Good Luck in 1st grade, Buddy!

Are You Talking to Me?

We did nothing today. By that I mean that we did nothing. We didn't go anywhere. We got up, had breakfast, the kids went upstairs to do whatever it is that they do, I put a load of laundry in the washing machine, and worked on Rebe's scrapbook. When the clock struck noon we had lunch. M went down for a nap, J watched a movie, and I finally got out of my PJs.

And the rest of the afternoon went much the same. I prepped dinner, folded clothes, washed dishes, and finally, around 4pm we walked over to the neighbor's house for a little bit of playtime before dinner.

Once we got home, Daddy announced that his buddies from out of town were going to be in Olympia and he was going to meet them for a drink. Wonderful. I had planned to take J to Target to get a birthday present for our little neighbor's party tomorrow afternoon. I had no plans to take M.

In spite of all the arguments I had in my mind about why he should not go, I said nothing and packed them in the car. Once in the toy department they touched everything they could get their hands on, pushed every button, lit up every gadget, placed as many items as they could in the middle of the aisle so as to not let anybody get through. I probably said, "come here; don't do that; pick that up; no, no, no; get out of the way," oh, I would guess 189 times. But we accomplished our mission and left with gift in hand -- well, half gift. We still had to go over to Borders to get something else.

Our trip there was uneventful. We went in, found what we wanted, and walked over to the cashier with the store still in decent shape.

That's when he walked up. A gentleman, probably in his 50s, nicely dressed, and he says to me, "Thank you for showing your kids how to use their inside voices." I looked around and there was nobody else there except the kids who as far as I know don't have any offspring as of yet. So I responded, "Really?"

There are a couple of reasons for my response. First of all, my kids are never quiet. And especially at Borders. As a matter of fact, they have actually been reprimanded by one of the workers there. And second, "Use your inside voice" is not a phrase I use very often. My version is more direct: Shut up! So, I said, "Did I say that? I don't remember, but it wouldn't be out of the realm of possibility since I'm always saying something to them." He then chuckled and replied, "No, but look at them. They're so well-behaved. I can tell you try. Unlike some parents."


And then I looked. Like really looked. And they were behaving. J was standing a little behind me waiting for the cashier to hand me the book so we can be on your way. And although M was touching some books -- the temptation is just too much for her --they weren't off the shelf and sprawled on the floor with pages ripped out -- yet.

He really was talking to me. For that second anyway.

Rolling & Rocking

I like nice things. Who doesn't? I've been known to spend a lot of money on trivial things such as shoes and purses. But walking in my beautiful shoes wasn't as glamorous as it appeared. Inside that nice purse was very little money and many credit cards with big balances.

These days, the credit cards are paid off thanks to a collective effort of work, parenting, and marriage. All bills that come into this house leave shortly thereafter with a check that will obliterate them until the next month rolls around. And the girl that for a while paid minimum balances on credit cards has left too.

This morning the kids and I packed into the car and went to Wal-Mart. I hadn't planned on going shopping there. My main destination was Costco across the street but I had to return something at WM and went there first.

While walking through the store I walked by a rack of tank tops that I just couldn't pass up. This isn't my first go round with these tanks. The love affair started about 4 years ago when we still lived in Maryland. They were cute, cheap, and came in every color on the spectrum. I bought one and loved the way it fit so I went back and bought another and another until I had racked up about 12 of them. I slipped into a different one every day as soon as I got home from work. I figured if they lasted the season I would have gotten my money's worth. I have most of them to this day. I went and got several more the summer after that. Sure, the lighter colored ones are looking a little yellow under the arms and the darker ones are starting to fade some, but they haven't ripped or stretched out in a funky way even though I'm about twice as big as I was then.

Since we were going down memory lane with our WM attire, after throwing a couple of the tanks into my cart, we made our way to the boys' department. Js favorite shirt right now is the Mario Kart tee pictured above. My mom bought it there while she was out to visit last month, so shortly upon arriving he started scheming for a Toy Story one. We didn't find it. But we did see exactly what I was looking for.

When J was a baby I bought him a few short-sleeved t-shirts there. Nothing fancy, just 100-percent cotton, crew-neck tees in, again, every color known to man. He wore them all the time. So when September arrived I went back to get the same shirts in the long-sleeved version. He wore them alone, under short-sleeved shirts, sometimes even as PJ tops. He outgrew them before they were too dingy to throw away and I went back twice a year until the ones in the baby section got too small and the ones in the boys' section were too big. Now they fit again. We got a couple neutral-colored ones and threw in a pair of shorts for good measure because the ones I got there last summer are still in good condition after numerous washings and lots of rough and tumble.

Not to be left out, M got a cute little top too.

Our grand total for five tops and a pair of shorts: $18.

To say that today's shopping spree was a good lesson for my kids would imply that I somehow feel I went outside of what is normal to prove a point. That is not the case. This is how we live. And I'm proud of that. I have never been above going to Ross, Target or WM to buy something that I thought was cute or trendy and I'm certainly not above doing the same for my kids.

I don't want J to grow up thinking that all shirts need an alligator or a pony on the pocket to be cool or that his shorts need a swoosh or a big cat to be worthy of a spot in his dresser. One day in the not-so-far-off future material possessions will become status symbols on the playground. It's my job to teach my kids that those aren't the things that define them. He needs to know that what's hanging off his body is not nearly as important as what's deep behind that pocket -- whether there's an animal present or not. And, I don't want it to be an occasional reminder, but rather something he's always known. Because, Mario, that's how WE roll in our house.

To say that I'm completely cured of my bad habits of old would be a flat out lie; they die hard. As soon as I can get myself into a respectable size in jeans I will be going out and spending a lot of money on a new pair. But I'm still wearing the ones I bought six years ago, snug and all. And, I still like nice shoes. I just don't buy four pairs at once anymore.

That being said, the occasional North Face jacket may continue to show up in a smaller-than-adult size around here -- and if I taught him well, he'll be proudly rocking his WM t-shirt right inside of it.

Bring It On

Two or three days ago I got an email from a friend to which were attached several pictures of her son's 7th Birthday party. I could hardly look at the pictures themselves because my mind was preoccupied with the fact that this little boy is only 8 months older than my J.

The logical me knows that J was born nine months after we got married; the emotional me locked it away in a seldom-seen dark corner of my mind and then threw away the key.

When he was about to be five I had a similar feeling. I wrote it off as five just being a milestone age. Six rolled around and I was okay. Maybe a little anxiety about climbing up and over the milestone hill. Nothing too dramatic. But seven just seems like such a big-boy age. Seven year olds are rambunctious and sneaky. My J is gentle and sweet and he still waves to me as he's walking towards the waiting school bus outside our door.

How did this happen? When did it happen? Oh, the questions swirling 'round. Did I do enough? Why did I so often whisk him off to sleep a couple of minutes early or not read the book yet another time just so that I could have a few moments to myself? Why did I tune him out when he babbled insistently about things that only live in the heads of little ones? And why am I only asking myself these questions now that the babble has turned into somewhat-intelligent chatter?

When I was a new parent somebody told me that when it came to raising a child, "the days are long, but the years are short." Words of wisdom indeed.

If there's any consolation in all of this it's that I don't remember a whole lot about anything that occurred before the age of six and that even if I had read that book from sun up to sun down, he wouldn't remember and I would still be asking the same questions.

As the years get shorter and shorter, I'd give anything to get one of those long, long days back. I wouldn't complain. I'd keep my ears and my eyes open. I'd hug him and kiss him and play and read to him until the very minute bedtime rolled around. And then I'd get up and do it all over again tomorrow.

In the real world, tomorrow I'll get up and there will be laundry to do, dishes to wash, groceries to be bought, and food to be cooked all sandwiched into small windows of time before getting him off to school, M napped, and running to the bus stop to pick him up again. The truth is, the days are long, but they're busy. I'm looking forward to summer when we'll have 2-plus months all to ourselves with no time constraints or schedules. And if there's any truth to the above saying, then having a toddler around will really stretch them out -- borrowed time in a way -- but time nonetheless. Time before he goes off to school full time and the windows that so controlled the course of my day will be blown wide open.

Time to enjoy the little boy that's before me now so that three, seven, ten or twenty, maybe even thirty or forty years from now I won't be asking myself the same questions. Yet I know I will. With him and with M, the questions will continue, but if it keeps me on my toes to constantly strive to be the best mommy I can be, then bring it on!

Sweet Blessings

One of my favorite times of the day is right before the bus comes to pick up J for school -- no, not because I might get a moment to myself, but because of what has become our special daily routine.

Somewhere between 11:50 and 11:55 we sit in the living room and just hang out. Sometimes we talk about stuff; sometimes we play one of his many made-up games; other times we just sit quietly. What goes on isn't really as important as the time we spend together just the two of us without the pressures of getting his backpack together, his lunch on the table, his shoes and his jacket on. It's our time to just chill.

Once the bus gets here we do the same routine of walking to the door where he hugs me, kisses me, and then it's my turn to return the favor in the exact same order: Hug. Kiss. Next I persinar him (bless him) both in English and in Spanish; and not until then is he ready to walk out of the door and onto the bus.

This is one of those rare, organically derived things that just became a part of our daily weekday lives. We don't' talk about it, but I know we both enjoy the moment.

Growing up, my mom would do something similar to my bro and me. Each morning before we walked out she would bless us and send us on our way. Whether it's done physically as we're about to board a plane back to what is now home or just mentally before she goes to bed, her bendicion continues to be with us to this day. Again, it's not something I think about all the time, but it brings a subconscious comfort to my being.

This last week has been full of a much-needed yet out-of-the-ordinary splash of sunshine so we decided to take our little party outside. I wasn't sure what to expect when the bus arrived as far as our good byes went, but nothing was altered. There were hugs and kisses on both ends and the international dose of blessings. He wasn't shy or embarrassed by our antics. It was the most normal thing in the world for him.

A couple of nights later, D took over the usually divied-up bedtime routines. I normally get M; he, J. After he came back downstairs he told me that when he walked M into the bonus room to say good night to J, he blessed her -- both in English and Spanish -- and he asked if this is something he usually does. It isn't, but he probably figures I do it each night before putting her to bed as I do to him.

Did he think that because I wasn't the one taking her to bed that night she wasn't going to be blessed??? That was the only thing that swayed from the norm and the only logical explanation I can muster. Even D was touched by the small gesture of the loving big brother.

Sweet blessings like this -- literal or not -- may or may not last forever.

Sweet blessings disguised as little boys not being embarrassed just to be seen with mom let alone hug, kiss, and engage in some awkward gesture while his friends look on, won't.....

The Dinosaur is Loose, Part II

Let's try this again. In what is par for the course today the first post that I had started somehow got deleted.

I was saying how sometimes I feel like such a bad mommy. Jacob got a game for his Leapster called "Digging for Dinosaurs." Tonight after dinner he decided that he was going to dig for dinosaurs in our living room. All of this was music to my ears; I could finally sit down for a moment and watch the news, because unless you're living in the dinosaur era, you know there was a horrible earthquake in Haiti and I wanted to see what was going on.

D has been gone since Tuesday and this was my third night flying solo with the kids. Dinner, entertainment of some sort, baths and/or shower, teeth brushing, and on and on....all of these tasks get added to my already long list of things to do. Tonight dinner was especially challenging. For some reason J spilled his milk, dropped his sauce-smothered penne on the floor, and spilled his milk again all within the span of five minutes. I'm done!

Just as I sat down to relax for a minute, guess what? J found a dinosaur egg and like any good anthropologist would be, he was very excited about showing off his wares. By sheer coincidence, it was his favorite kind. "Guess what kind it is, Mema?" For the life of me I couldn't remember the particular species that he fancies so much so I told him to just tell me. It was a Tyrannosaurus Rex. Of course it was. How could I forget?

And that's where I stopped....I stopped right there and took M to bed. At the same time, D came walking through the door and we took a few minutes to talk about his trip and other matters of housekeeping. The talk soon turned to -- what else -- dinosaurs.

And all of a sudden the story changes. This is going from bad to worse and my position on the My-Mommy-is-the-Greatest Meter just dropped even more. Apparently I got a couple of the details wrong:

First, there was no digging for dinosaurs. He went to the Dinosaur Museum. And second, he found a baby stuffed animal of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. Don't ask me where the eggs came from.

He is completely oblivious to all of these developments and it will stay that way until he's old enough to understand that his constant rantings about dinosaurs, insects, cats, bunnies or whatever the flavor of the day may be, are enough to drive someone to drink.

He's such a sweet little boy. The mistake-ridden story was going to continue by saying that at one point he came to say something to me and I stopped him dead in his tracks and told him not now. He went back to what we now know was the museum and continued exploring. I felt bad, so I called him back, told him to ask his question, and all he had to say was that in addition to the baby T-Rex he got for himself, he found a T-Rex for Daddy as well. "Because that's Daddy's favorite dinosaur too." Then he said, "And guess what? I got you one." With his hand hidden behind his back he told me that he got me my favorite: A Triceratop. We had this conversation one day and I, myself, had almost forgotten what my favorite was, but he didn't.

I could be the dinosaur in this story. I'm too old for kids this age. They're energetic, curious, exhausting. I'm selfish, impatient....

...and a little insecure. I make mistakes. I'm out of control and at times hard to handle. But if you can't handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don't deserve me at my best. ~Marilyn Monroe

And the same goes for them, dinosaurs and all.

I'm So Happy to Have these Kids

It's been some time since my last entry. Between my lack of time and my anal-ness about the format of the last one, I've hesitated to write in here. I couldn't possibly publish my last post until I had it formatted so it' wasn't such an eyesore. Then I realized that nobody reads this anyway except for Lacy, my inspiration to blog, and she may actually be able to help w/the problem.

Besides, the kids are too adorable to stall any longer. J & M are so cute together. They have somewhat of a love/hate relationship. Each morning he gets up and asks me, "Can we go see what the Beauty Queen is up to?" once we do, he asks, "Can we chill with M on the bed for a little while?" We usually just all sit on the bed for a couple of minutes and they roll around, scream, tackle, and laugh. She loves it -- for a while -- then she turns her back and crawls over to me. That's pretty much the template for their relationship.

He loves to hang out with her, but then he's yelling in her face and scaring her a moment later. She sees him and smiles, yells, crawls over to him, climbs on him, and then she's done. She's recently started to kiss him over and over, though she does it to D and me as well.

Yesterday morning she got hold of a little i-Pod he got in a Happy Meal, she found the button and when the music came on, she started doing what she does best: dancing...she kept pushing the button and dancing some more. I joined in and the next thing we knew the three of us were dancing and laughing in his room. Priceless good times.

About a month ago, he was jumping around and talking to himself under his breath and I caught the phrase, "I'm so happy I have a sister." I asked him about it and he 'fessed up to saying it. That's so cute! Today, he's said, "I love you" a couple of times. This time when I inquired, he said he was talking to M.

After four years of being an only child, he has really adjusted well to sharing his parents, his space, and his life with another little person. I'm so proud of him. I really believe that he's happy to have a sister; and though she may not know it yet, one day she'll be very happy to have such a wonderful brother.

And me, I'm so happy to have these kids!