He’s Got My Number

I love my son. I really, really do. He’s my first born. And he’s becoming a lot of fun. But it wasn’t, and isn’t, always rainbows and puppy dog tails. J’s post eloquently and elegantly (as usual) reminded me that we too have our tough times. I’m not always the best mommy to E. There are days that I am positive that he’s pushing my buttons merely because he can. That he’s not listening because, well … because he’s being a pain in the butt. But he’s not. He’s four. I have to remember that he’s only four. He’s a great four-year old. He’s empathetic. He’s nice to his little sister. He tells me he likes my shoes. He also complains. And whines. And sometimes whiningly complains. And sometimes I think I won’t survive one more second of it. And sometimes … sometimes he sits on my lap and tells me that he loves me. Without me asking. In a moment of quiet, I can see that I have it pretty good. And I need to savor that. Find a way to bank it for later. I think I’ll need it in the teenage years.