I usually don't let my kids drink milk at meals. I should rephrase that: They have milk in their cereal and with cookies but I simply prefer waterbottles at the table because it limits the amount of messes I have to clean up (which there are still plenty) and takes the emphasis off of drinking their calories so they actually (occasionally) eat the meal I prepare for them. I must say this rule is mostly for little a, who after sooo many spills of milk, officially got downgraded to a sippy cup (which she was thrilled about for some reason) for purposes of milk drinking. And yes, I am super boring and much to the chagrin of all little d's friends, we do not keep juices or sodas in the house. Orange juice is only when someone is sick, and we occasionally make smoothies but that's about it.
Well. Not five seconds after I poured little d his requested cup of milk to go with his bagel and cream cheese, he spilled the whole cup on the table. And of course (because he is 5) he just stared at it and made some comment about how of course he spilled it. Frustrated, as I cleaned up I made a comment about it that I am embarrassed to say was more sarcastic than I wanted it to be and I immediately regretted it. He was upset and I quickly apologized to him, explaining that I upset at myself: I was out of paper towels, and that towel I has just used on his spill was my last kitchen towel and I still had to do laundry later today.
Little d disappeared into the bathroom and then came back to the kitchen table a few minutes later. I continued getting everyone breakfast and was surprised to pass by the oven and see one of the extra towels from the bathroom hanging there.
I looked at him and he just smiled and gave me a hug.
Sometimes, on days where 3 of my 4 children are committing mutiny in the form of sleep regression (I had to bribe the 3 year old with her first taste of bubblegum to prevent her from falling asleep in the car) and I feel like I can't get anything right (or get that same 3 year old to STOP. ALL. THE. SCREAMING.), I am immensely grateful for my oldest child, who, as difficult as I felt he was to figure out those first 3 years, is usually my only (mostly) unwavering source of sanity these days.
My golden child.
(I feel like as a fellow firstborn I have a right to call him that without all the others getting mad at me? Also he is my only child who can properly reason).
We have our rough patches and our crying fits (which for the record, beat screaming ones any day of the week!) but we have been through everything together. I say his sister is my mini-me mostly because she is a girl, but to be completely honest, he is the one who inherited my eyes, my stubborness (despite being wrong), my love for running, my klutziness, my love for hugs and cuddles and making homemade gifts... If there were a boy version of me, he would be it (well, aside from the obvious athleticism and blonde hair he got from his dad).
I love love love love LOVE my little d.
Typical panda. Booty bounce.
This is how he walks, regardless of the surface. In a constant state of near falling, dinosaur hands. Love!
In case you didn't know, this is the panda face, he does this every time I see him after a break, especially when picking him up out of the crib:
Monday's pancake breakfast! Everyone but A had on BYU shirts so I had to snag a pic!
Evening BBQ at "summakennas" (kicking myself for not washing her matching swimsuit but then again I have all summer to snap a cute pic of the little triplets!)
