He brings me joy
There is so much I could say about Cooper, but the things that most often crosses my mind is this: he brings me more joy than I ever though possible. Every, single moment I’m away from him, my heart aches. I adore this sweet, happy, crazy little boy.
Here’s a recent layout about all the things I want to remember about him … right now.
I want to remember how happy you are. You are free to laugh and it drives you batty when someone is mad or upset. You’ll demand “Make me funny.” Or “Take a smile.” You want every, single person in your world to share your joy and zest for life.
I wanted to remember as I was leaving your room last night I heard him say "Blankie, I love you." I looked back to see you clutching your threadbare, green blanket to your chest. Melt.
I want to remember how much you love the story of Jack in the Beanstalk, but you can’t say beanstalk correctly. Instead, it comes out beanstop.
I want to remember that at three years, five months and four days you have zero interest in potty training. You can clearly articulate when you’re wet or poopy (“Make me fresh mama. I need a new, fresh diaper); and in theory you love the idea of underwear (you call them chonies). But even when I sit you on the potty, knowing full well you have to go, you’ll refuse to do your business. Sigh. Let’s hope you’re potty trained before college.
I want to remember how much you idolize your sister. Absolutely everything she does is awesome and you want to be doing it too. At bedtime you ask “How about Black Beauty?“ … since that’s the book Shelby is reading at the moment.
I want to remember the unadulterated love you have for me, your mama. When I’m around, the rest of the world disappears. Mama has to do everything, and no one else is good enough. Change my diaper mama. Get me juice mama. Mama puts me to bed.
I want to remember what a picky eater you are right now. At the moment, pancakes and yogurt are about all you’ll eat on a regular basis and chocolate milk of course.
I want to remember how you correct me when I call you my baby. “I’m not a baby mommy; I’m just a big boy.”
I want to remember your current obsession with rockets. Everything is a rocket ship. Yesterday, when daddy said, “How about I put you in Mom’s car?” Your response was an indigent, “It’s not a car. It’s a rocket ship.” We fly to the moon. We visit planets. We save each other from far off lands. You have a brilliant and active imagination.
I want to remember what a great sleeper you used to be … until about six months ago when you started getting out of bed around 2 a.m. (every stinkin’ night), and crawling into bed with me and daddy. You go right back to sleep, while I toss and turn and struggle to sleep with you in our bed. Inevitably, I quietly sneak out and go to sleep in the guest room.
I want to remember your dislike of shoes. You take off your shoes every chance you get. You’re often getting in trouble at preschool because you refuse to keep them on.
I want to remember what a great little mind you have. You can count to 15 in English. You can count to 10 in Spanish. You know all your colors. You know all your shapes. You recognize numbers and letters properly.
You remember everything we tell you can repeat it when it serves you best.
I love you so much.