Most days my delectable bundle of energy and curiosity loves his pencils and songs about the Number Five.
Some days I find my usually lighthearted Boy brooding with his head buried in books filled with tales of dragons and brave knights. Some days he’ll cop a ‘tude over the Xbox and no amount of stupid mother tricks cracks his smile.
But most days he compromises. I allow him control over his hair while he completes his work and unloads the dishwasher with minimal groaning. Most days the dirty laundry basket is emptied without my asking. Most days I’m able to find his unbearable tickle spot and steal a kiss.
But most days I kiss her plum-flavored cheeks and marvel at the young lady she’s blossoming into. Most days I want to bottle her just as she is and keep her in my pocket. I’m besieged with panic just thinking about her stepping out onto her own. Most days she grabs the globe and finds the most obscure island in the most remote body of water in an effort to stump me. Most days she does stump me – in all senses of the word.