Lately this kid is killing me. One minute I want to scoop him up and squeeze the stuffing out him because he is over-the-moon cute, and in the next minute, I want to stuff him into a box and ship him to the other side of the world. How can someone who is so naughty be so darn cute? My entire day consists of saying:
Leif, do not pee on the floor.
Leif, where did you find that marker?
Leif, where are your clothes?
Leif, why did you make that mess?
Leif, do not bother your sister.
Leif, do not wake up your sister.
Leif . . .
Leif . . .
Leif . . .
He, seriously, stretches my patience, and one of these days it is going to snap. Who am I kidding . . . I am going to snap, and I am getting old; I may not be able to bounce back like I did once upon a time.
He goes from covering the walls in Zincofax to asking me to help him prepare a Peanut Butter Sandwich Party for his stuffies, complete with empty Rubbermaid containers filled with imaginary candy and instructing me on how to enjoy them:
Mom, you need to unwrap your candy and lick it. Like this!
He goes from walking Harriet on a leash and calling her Fluffy, while she trails behind him with the biggest grin on her face to pushing her down because he wants the toy she has in her hand.
He goes from pitching a fit in the YMCA because he is suddenly too scared to go into the gym (who does that sound like? Oh. My. Land . . . insert screaming face emoji here) because he only wants to sit on the bench in the hall to splashing in the pool at the YMCA, exclaiming:
This is the best day ever, mom! Thank you, mommy, for bringing us.
He gives the best hugs. He nearly knocks you over when he wraps those skinny little arms of his around your neck, and there is nothing more heart-warming than when he squeals:
I love you, mommy.
He makes the biggest messes, and when he is caught on the brink of unleashing mass destruction, he will flash the most adorable, yet mischievous, grin and exclaim:
Nothing to see here, Mom. Just turn around.
He is the biggest help around the house - he cleans, he bakes, he makes supper, he vacuums and he rakes. I love hearing him ask:
I help too, mom?
He makes me laugh, cry, smile and cringe all at the same time, countless times a day, and more times than not, he leaves me feeling like the world's worst mother:
Why can't he just sleep?
Why must he always make a mess?
Why must he scream so loudly?
Why won't he listen?
But, when I am at my lowest, feeling exasperated and defeated by this two year old ball of energy and irrational behaviour, he will hold my face in between his two little hands, grin and whisper:
It's going to be okay, mom. It's going to be okay.
And for some strange reason, I actually believe him.
When will I learn to keep the Zincofax up and out of his reach?
Seriously, he is the best!
A little snack we shared during one of his weekly 3am meetings with me. You know . . . to touch base and to discuss our dreams, goals and aspirations.
He is happiest in the kitchen, and has all of a sudden decided to stick out his tongue whenever I ask him to look at me.
Mr. Independent waits for no one, or anything as trivial as clothes, when he wants to do something . . . again with the tongue.
Our Monday morning Peanut Butter Sandwich Party
After sandwiches and imaginary candies, the guests all watched an episode of Paw Patrol with their hosts.
Leif, you bring me so much joy. Yes, you bring me to my knees, quite literally, with all your antics and mischief, but more times than not, I find myself on my knees, thanking Heavenly Father for the privilege of raising you and loving you. Thank you for choosing me to be your mama.