Connor's favorite store is Lowe's. He can usually convince his daddy to take him there at least once weekly, with the sole aspiration to try out every riding mower they have in stock. Their last visit was cut rather abruptly short, however, when Connor, who had already been dragged bodily from his lengthy test-drive session, and who had also been picking his nose conspicuously from his place in the shopping cart, stood and frantically shouted, "I lost my booger!" over and over. "Where's my booger?"
Our young man is a perpetual source of entertainment. Despite a harrowing week at Vacation Bible School ("Are you Connor's mommy? Well...your son is certainly...spirited!") and lots of time in his room at home for antagonizing his sister and smarting off to us (age three is turning out to be more "terrible" than two in lots of ways...sigh...), our boy always manages to redeem himself at the flip of a switch. I explain all the time that the world of little boys is new and fascinating for me, the oldest of two girls. When I was a child, even masculine playthings were unacceptable. The only mildly male toy I owned was a giant stuffed lion with a mane, and I stubbornly immasculated the poor thing, clipping barrettes onto it and tying bracelets around its paws . Now my house is filled with water pistols, miniature lawn tools, tiny cars, and wee superheroes. I used to entertain myself quietly for hours, building apartment dwellings for my Barbies. Connor is not content to play any game that does not involve a slobbery motor noise (he's even taught Mia to do it. I fear I may have to tolerate some tomboy tendencies eventually.). Every piece of furniture we own has already become a launch point. The other day I strode innocently into the kids' playroom to find that my son had pushed a dining chair up to the toy shelf, balanced a small folding chair above that, and was standing on top, straining to reach something I thought I'd cleverly placed out of his reach. I stifled a scream because I knew if I startled him, we'd be driving to the E.R. next. Someone once told me when I was pregnant with him that I should go ahead and nail all the furniture to the floor. I remember laughing then. I'm immersed in a world of grubby fingernails and bruised elbows and knees, of sweaty feet and ketchup-smeared cheeks. He is clumsy, irreverent, stubborn, loud, and sloppy. But he's wonderful. I adore the little made-up tunes he sings, often while trying to stand on his head ("I'm the very first Connorrrr...in thuh worrrllllld!"), and the impulsive way he flings himself into my lap for a snuggle. I love the little dusting of freckles that has appeared across his nose this summer. I love the way he dares me to tickle him. I love that he still lets me rock him sometimes. I love that he brings me bedraggled clover blossoms. I watch him sleeping, nearly buried in a mountain of stuffed friends he insisted on piling around him, one leg dangling off the side of the bed, a tiny puddle of drool collecting on his pillow, and I KNOW I will look back on this time and MISS it. I'm going to do my best to remember that.
Posts
