Yesterday, I called your house and you insisted on talking to me.
"Hey big boy!"
"Yeah! I am a big boy!"
I haven't seen you for a few weeks since we've both been out of town. And you weren't kidding. You are so big! I feel like you grew ten inches!
But that's what happens when you're four. Four! It sounds like such a huge number. I don't think you can even be considered a toddler anymore!
So this birthday of yours has been killing me. Yesterday, I just couldn't stop squeezing you and lamenting the loss of my little baby. I may have seen an eye-roll or two, but for the most part you indulged my dramatics.
You do this well, indulging my insanity. There's the constant breaking out into song. And the bedtime routine that involves three languages and an accent that's part French, with a dash of Latino and German. And how about the way "Duck Duck Goose" always turns into something more like "Duck Parakeet Flamingo Dodo Goose?"
I think that I may be rubbing off on you. You seem to turn the game into "Poopy Snake Chocolate Milk Goose!"
I hope it's only the good pieces of me that rub off. The quickness to laughter and the love and the unabashed goofiness. Because I see how these things make you smile.
Thank you for playing along for the last four years. I promise to return the favor and indulge your crazy!