My Picasso

The love for his Mama was Andrew's main subject matter about six months ago. I got a lot of notes that said "I LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE YOU MAMA." The first, say, ten, went into the fire safe. Really. The next few went into his personal file folder in our office. The next several rotated a spot on the fridge and the last few may have been tossed accidentally. I will admit I began to take them for granted.

This was his magnum opus:

And then today I found this...this...this...I don't know what to call it. Art? HA!:

Translation: I have a new girlfriend.

I found this in his pocket when I was washing his uniforms. I laughed, but the tears welled up. What a fickle little monkey!

I know he's only six, but I think I would rather have found a joint. 'Cause then I would have to properly dispose of it. *Cough Cough* And I could have numbed the pain of my little guy moving on.

Banana Split

On Andrew's first day of school, Hannah woke up, rolled out of bed, dressed herself, and skipped to the bus stop to see "Brudder" off to school. That's why she looks homeless and a little bit crazy. The orange shorts are from a Dora the Explorer set.

On Hannah's faux-first day of
school, she looked so stinking cute, I couldn't stand it. It was faux because I'm a terrible mother and did not snap a picture of her first day, but waited until the second. I hope I made up for it with the afro-puffs.

Tumbleweed

My son is in first grade. This is a very interesting age, like he's right on the cusp of something major. It's like he's caught between pooping his pants and going to a Jonas Brothers Concert. He has no front teeth, which is like the last official vestige of babyhood. It gives him this babyish quality I haven't seen since he toddled into my arms with a round, chubby little grin.

I am going through a lot of his old clothes that are hidden in the corners of my basement. Seeing his little pants brought back so many memories of his "new" little legs awkwardly running through the backyard. Now I buy his clothes in a whole other section, and there are no months or 'T' in the size.

He still crawls into bed with us in the early morning hours and finds his spot in his mama's arms, but he's not as pliable as he used to be. He is a boy, not a toddler, not a baby, but a boy. The days are long, but the years are short. Before I know it, I'll be looking back to these days and wishing for my boy.