I'm Glad They Call Me Mom

I watch Tim finishing up yard work. A minute later three-year-old John comes running into the house. "I need a chiso," he reports. A chisel? I wonder what nefarious schemes are brewing in that blond head of his.

"I'm cweaning the lawn mower with Tim," John tells me. Tim comes in to report how much fun John is having. "We should get all kids this age to work," Tim says. "They thinks it's great!."

The best part is spending time with your oldest brother.

Later Tim tells me what a first-rate job he has done on the yard. "Dad said it was great!" he says. He seems to hold himself just a little bit taller.

You know, we have our moments, Tim and I. Just a week ago a simple bibliography turned into an epic production, hours and hours in the making. But the next afternoon, Tim came in from school and launched into his note cards without word one from me.

"These are due next week," he said. "And I'm not going to pocastinate."

More welcome words have never been misspoken.

Meanwhile, John has passed through that purge and pillage stage of play and now engages in a wide range of more productive activities. As I drank my morning coffee, he came running in. "My bed is a volcano," he said. "I need eye protection."

Of course. Flying lava and all. Outfitted in Tim's ski goggles, off he ran to a world of pure imagination.

John's tantrums have decreased in frequency, duration, and volume. Maybe he just needed something captivating to do.

A year ago I started a post entitled "Fair and Balanced Reporting. " It began:

If I should persevere in this blogging endeavor until John is old enough to read, I fear he will peruse these posts and conclude that he was nothing more than a one man wrecking crew at this age.

For the record, sweet John, you are a precious gift from God. You are the result of persistent prayer - deep, heart-rending supplication to our gracious God for another soul to love.

You are cute, cuddly, funny, expressive.

Though he is still cute, cuddly, fun, and expressive, John is no longer the one man wrecking crew. Ainsley handles that task quite nicely, thank you very much.

Miss Ainsey's vocabulary is positively exploding. She runs to the door and yells, "'Side! 'Side!" She loves the park, her dad, and her brothers.

The more she grows, the more I mourn our nursing days. A blink of an eye, a blink of an eye.

Even Dolly is hitting developmental milestones. It seems she has weaned and is now taking both cow's milk and solids. Adages to the contrary, spilt milk usually makes me want to cry, but this scene cracked me up.

As for Kolbe -- Special K, as we once called him -- he remains steady Eddie. Everyone needs a nine-year-old in the house. He's mostly cheerful, mostly happy, forever planning his next book, his next movie, his next money making pyramid scheme.

I'm glad they call me Mom.

Except for Dolly, of course. According to the older boys, she calls me Grandma!?!