Mommy's Boy

I couldn't help but notice that there's been a lot of talk about babies around here lately. And that's alright because my baby zister, Gracie, is so sweet. But there's a big boy in this house too, and I think it's time that someone paid attention to all the great things I've been up to.

So first of all, as you probably know, I'm a big brother now. I've been a good helper to my parents from the day Grace was born. I have a special sense for Grace's preferences, so I often tell my mom "Gracie wants to sit on my lap," and Mom helps me hold her. Gracie gets bored quickly, though, so she never stays on my lap very long.
When my mom won't let me hold Grace, I just sit next to her and tell her how sweet and cute she is. She really likes having me for a big brother.

Grace is too little to walk and run and jump and climb like I do, so I do what I can to help her feel better about missing out on so much. I'm especially good at sharing my toys. She really appreciates that, I think.

My mother, on the other hand, is a real spoil-sport. She put a two-at-a-time limit on my toy sharing. But to show Grace how much I love her, I let her keep my two favorites: Slinky and Froggie Haircut.

After Grace arrived, everyone kept talking about what a big boy I'd become. And I gotta say, it's true. I can do pretty much anything the grownups do. I exercise on the treadmill, play X-Box, and work on the computer.

I'm also pretty handy with the camera. I like leave surprises for my parents to find when they upload pictures. Like these:

And these:
In fact, I'm so grown up I've dumped hierarchical titles like "Mom" and "Dad." I prefer a more egalitarian nomenclative system; namely, I call my mother "Schmiana" (her first name*) and my father "Sweetie." I heard my mom tell one of her friends that she thought if she didn't make a big deal about it I'd get over it. That was five months ago. Silly Schmiana!

I think it makes Schmiana a little bit sad that I'm such a big boy now. I've tried to make it easier on her by holding on to certain rituals of my babyhood--like wearing a diaper, for example. I know she'd be heartbroken if I actually put on those big boy underpants. She puts up a good front, and keeps offering them to me, but I know she doesn't really mean it. So to keep her happy, every now and then, when she snatches me up to hug me and say, "You're my boy, aren't you?" sometimes, instead of teasing back, "I'm Malcom's boy!" (or Grandpa's boy, or Dora's boy) like I usually do, sometimes--just to appease the woman--I'll snuggle into her arms and say, "Yeah, I'm Mommy's boy."



*Not really.