the "big boy"


I snuggle Tennyson on my lap enjoying that he is such an excellent cuddler. "Tennyson," I say, rocking him back and forth, "are you my baby?"

"NO!"

"Are you my little girl?"

"No. Big Boy."

And he is. He's so big. I don't know where the last couple of years have gone with him. He's tall, he's ridiculously silly, he's conniving, he's sweet, he's hot-tempered.

He wears size 8 shoes and size 3 clothes. He could probably wear a 4, but you know the pants would be too big.

He gets mad when we drop Jordan off at school and he doesn't get to stay. "Me chool! Me chool!" he begs. I actually feel like I'm cheating him out of something when I carry him out of there, his big blue/green eyes desperately watching the kids play with the toys, the scissors, the play dough.

Next week he's going to be two. I'm excited for him because I know he wants to be "big" and do the things that Jordan does. I'm a little sad for me, because he's supposed to be my baby, at least for a little longer.

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