{You were hoping this post was going to be about Frisch’s, weren’t you? Mmmm… Frisch’s…}
Sammy has decided in the last week or so that he is a big boy. He doesn’t even want to hear the other “b” word.
“I not a baby, Mama. I a big boy.”
For the longest time, I’ve asked him whose baby he is (and, frustratingly, most of the time he replied “Daddy’s baby!”), but now he won’t even play along.
He’s even made me change the words to the lullaby we sing at night. “Rock a big boy” just doesn’t quite have the same ring to it.
He is a big boy. He’s independent (and opinionated, omg. NO IDEA where he gets that one from. *ahem*). He’s potty trained. He’s busy. He is constantly playing something – the first thing he said to me yesterday morning was “Take off my jammies. I can’t play baseball in my jammies,” and at the end of the day, he didn’t want to go to bed, he wanted to play more “putball.”
But then there are moments like this morning, after I’d brought him to our bed hoping for a few more minutes of sleep. I looked at his face just inches from mine. He laid there sleeping so peacefully, sucking his thumb and clutching his beloved teddy bear, and I could hardly stand the sweetness. So innocent, so vulnerable.
He is a big boy. But he’s still so little.
