I don't want any one to think, from my last few posts (and lack thereof in between) that I'm in any way depressed.
My life is pretty darned good right now.
Actually, my family is GREAT.
My husband (and I, by association and my own sacrifices made) worked for YEARS to go back to school, get his degree and then get a job in the field he's always wanted to work in. And when you consider that during that time we got married, had TWO kids, AND that he held down a full-time job and that the interview process for said 'job of his dreams' was much like a full-time job itself, well, its a lot to have accomplished. And its awesome as HEY-YELL to see him being challenged but loving what he does.
He did it. He's awesome. And he still thinks I'm sexy. I don't know if I could be more proud.
And my kids? Oh my God I could gush about my kids EVERY DAY.
The fact that Will is two years and three months old and that I haven't changed a poop diaper in MONTHS? Freakin' amazing. And that the kid wore underwear ALL DAY SUNDAY even through his nap AND the trip to the grocery store? OUTSTANDING.
But the things that kid SAYS? Oh my hell.
Sunday morning - I'm putting a shirt on him that used to be his brother's. (Who, by the way, only balked for a second that it used to be his favorite Brewers shirt and even though its too small I let him wear until, oh, last week. "Nick, buddy. It doesn't fit you any more. Its a 3T." "OH! OK then.")
"Hey, Will, look! You get a new Brewer shirt! Look - its Prince Fielder!" I turned the shirt around to show him the name and numbers on the back.
"NO! Nah Piss Feefer. Ry Brah."
OHMYGOD. Did he just hear "Brewers" and pull another player's name out of his teeny little boy brain?!?
"See? FIELDER. Number 28. He hits big home runs!"
"NO. Nah Piss Feefer. I wan Ry Brah!!!"
Clearly, I was getting nowhere. "OK. OK. Its Ryan Braun then."
He smiled so big when he realized I understood what he was saying. Ryan Braun it is, buddy.
And the example there, of how good Nick is with his little brother? I could write PAGES of stories like that. He has a tendency to be a bit of a whiner, but DOOD the kid is smart! My Mom gave each of the boys a little pocket-sized notebook the other day and a pencil. Know what I found when I opened the notebook after the ride home in the car? The entire ALPHABET, printed out on a single page. In order, completely legible. Only the "S" was backwards.
And he's not old enough for 4K yet. (He has a November birthday so he missed the cut off this past year.)
If you ask him to count? He'll hit 20 and keep on going. Somewhere around 50 he'll forget what order the tens go in, and hit 59 and say, "What comes next, Mama?" To which you'll hear me say, "What do you THINK comes next bud?" And he says, "Sixty?" "You gotter, babe!" He'll hit 100 with a proud smile on his face and keep going. Usually he hits 120 or 130 before he gets tired and says "I don't feel like counting any more." (C'mon, Jen-nye! I just felt like runninG.)
He hits a baseball like no one's business. I bought him a tee that automatically pitches five balls in a row a few weeks ago because I already was so tired of pitching to him. Best $28 I've spent in a long LONG time. He never tires of the game. Do you remember his penchant for telling stories? Well, his newest includes "Remember that time I hit the baseball over my house?!?" Yep...he did. Over the upstairs porch on the back of the house anyway, but that's high enough.
And he's just sweet to his brother. (Usually.) Will's other obsession lately is bobbleheads. Even HE tells rambling stories about how he threw a ball in his room, knocked a Bobby Dandridge bobble off the dresser and broke it. He tells the story to everyone who'll listen, and asks God to bless the bobbleheads when we say our prayers at night.
Will's little notebook? Is full of pictures of bobbleheads he's had me draw. Baseball bobbleheads, basketball, football...whatever the request of the moment happens to be. Sunday morning I hit my limit. I had just drawn a nice trio of bobbles (oh, you should see my artwork!) surrounded by every sport piece of equipment I could imagine (hoping to stave off future requests, you see) only to be asked again minutes later for another "babahed".
"No buddy. Momma's all bobbleheaded out."
"Sorry dude. You draw in your notebook."
Nick stepped in. "I'll draw one for you, Will."
I swear...sometimes they just OOZE of goodness and I just want to eat them up.