Yep. To this day, his buddy calls him "Baby M." Because that's what he was. Our baby. And now? He's 4. Yesterday, all day, I told him over and over, "Now you're four years and 3 hours old." "Now you're four years and 4 hours old..." He is so excited! And, of course, he's not the baby anymore, anyway! Now he's the
middle child. The attention-seeker. The instigator. The player. I call him our future Jeep-driving middle kid. He'll be the cool one who wears the rad (do we say that in 'cool' circles anymore?) hemp rope around his neck in the fashion of hip male jewelry. He 'plans' to be a professional baseball player. And believe me. He has the tenacity to do it. And the practice hours in already. Every day. I'm throwing him the ball. Every day. Rain. Snow. Cold. Hot. It doesn't matter to Baby M. He'll play. Today I told him I was going on
baseball vacation. And then I threw him the ball. Because that's what you do with Baby M. It makes him do this:
And who can resist that sweet smile when the lips curve up right at the very corners? Well, not me, anyway. He wanted a baseball cake. So I made him one. Until 2:30 in the morning. Betty Crocker I am not. Wilton cake decorator I am not. But Mommy to one sweet little boy who is growing up and makes me laugh and turns my hair gray with his bull-headed ability to NOT listen or obey? That I am. And here was his cake:
And lest you be foiled by that sweet demeanor. Here he as his alter-ego:
HAHA! He reminds me that Jesus loves me. And he prays at every meal for 'strangers' and for his friends to listen to their moms. He's a unique little character that has brought amazing light to our family by his presence. And his disturbances. But, I digress.
Here's the final picture of our door. Welcome Home, Family :)
And Happy Birthday, Baby M.
~The Roost'er
