Wednesday, February 1, 2017

Don't grow up, buddy.

Oh, my sweet William. Tonight I am sorry. I'm sorry that you bear the brunt of my expectations and, therefore, often my frustrations. In the past couple of days I have snapped at you for being too rough with Neva, for singing potty words to church songs, for not seeing a water bottle I needed for a hacking Neva, a bottle sitting right in front of your face. Each time I snapped at you, I was thinking, grow up, buddy. But you are four. It reminds me of the time that you were two (TWO! You had just turned two a couple of months before!) and I was having you learn how to feed the dog. I asked you to pick up his dog dish and bring it to the pantry. As you walked over with the dish, you beat on the bottom of the empty bowl with your hand like a drum. For some reason at the time I was frustrated and impatient and I said something like, hurry up buddy. Thankfully, God halted that RIGHT in its tracks and spoke very clearly, he is a little boy. You are still a little boy. You are learning. 

And you are such a good boy in so many ways. You have raised the bar for four-year-olds everywhere. You set such an excellent example for Barrett and Neva, gamely helping me with chores and letting me brush your teeth without a fuss and sharing so nicely and playing so creatively and worshiping in church so diligently. I am so very proud of you. Tonight I apologized to you, oh, it must've been three or four times. And you so sweetly forgave me. I had to laugh at one point, though –  after the third time of Barrett bursting into tears when it was nearing bedtime and you kept pushing his buttons, I vented, "William, why does he keep crying? Why do you keep making him cry?" And you replied, "I just don't know how to stop, mom!" You are not perfect, but you are the perfect son for me. I love you with all my heart.

Last night you and Barrett were playing Dino Trucks. Neither of you have seen Dino Trucks but you know it exists, and you guys got the idea to each wedge a big ball into the backs of your two dump trucks, and voilĂ ! Dino Trucks. "Wow!" I exclaimed, when the two of you rolled into the piano room and told me what you were playing. Barrett said, "my Dino trucks name is Beekle!" "Cool!" I said. "William, what's your truck's name?" "His name is Truck," you replied. That is so you.

I love you. 


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