CootieBoy desperately wants to be five years old. Everytime we told him his birthday was coming up he’d cry, “I’m gonna be FIVE!” Uh. No. Four.
“But I wanna be FIVE!” he’d cry again.
But it’s not 1-2-3-5, I’d explain.
He’d start crying. “But CootieGirl is five – I wanna be five!”
And then there was this exchange this morning:
“How old are you, mama?”
Gee, thanks, youngster.
At four, my little devil is rambunctious, energetic, fun, and active. But he’s also a great cuddler, loves to give hugs of all sizes (we give varying degrees of hugs in our house) and is quick to say “I love you” (and yes, half the time it’s to suck up when his sister is misbehaving, but I’ll take it).
He loves the Wii (thank heavens he’s receiving a new game today so I don’t get pestered with “I wanna play Indiana Jones” every day from here to eternity). He loves stomping in puddles. He loves to push me out the door when I drop him off at daycare. He loves making silly sounds and even sillier faces. He likes to pick out his own clothes to wear each day. He loves to go to the pool but hates to get his face wet. He loves Scooby Doo and Tom & Jerry cartoons. His favorite foods are baked beans, corn and Spagettios with meatballs. He doesn’t like when people yell, and if he gets yelled at he’s quick to say “You hurt my feelings!”
He’s a charmer and a sweetheart and sometimes I love him so much my heart hurts from the power of it.
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