You saw your new pediatrician in Dothan this past week. You're in the 75th percentile for height and weight - not too shabby, considering you were somewhere around the 19th percentile when you were a baby. For being an extraordinarily picky eater, you're growing just fine. But I'm not telling you that. I may never get you to try new foods if I tell you that disliking meat (except bacon, because, well, duh. It's bacon.) and most veggies and loving all things sweet and white carb-y has gotten you up to the 75th percentile.
You're such an efficient counter: you can count from one to twenty in only fourteen numbers. It's pretty amazing.
Your sister is precocious (duh, right?). Your sister is a dramatic sass-pot (again, duh). (Your sister is also amazingly sensitive and kind-hearted, but that't not the focus of this paragraph). Your sister is also your most favorite person ever. Therefore you often mimic her and follow her lead. But because she knows more than you, your mimicry gets a little lost in translation.
Me: Let's have some ice cream!
Natalie: Y-A-Y YAY!!
*I don't know this for a fact, but I'm pretty sure your thought process was "Hmmm, Natalie just spelled something. Must be a good idea."*
You: *jumping up and down* Having ice cream sounds like E-N-P FUN!
Natalie: E-N-P fun??!?!?
You: Yeah! Fun is spelled E-N-P.
Natalie: Um, not it's not.
You: Sure it is. I just spelled it!
You become afflicted with random ailments when it's time to empty the dishwasher or brush your teeth or anything that doesn't involve Legos, superheroes, trucks, or doing a headstand on the couch. You could be playing just fine five minutes before it's Time to Do Something You Don't Want To, but the second it's time to stop playing, you immediately fall to the ground and declare your legs are broken. Or the scratch on your knee is so severe you need to lie down. Or your fingernail is too long. Or you're hungry. Or your brain is broken. Or you want to read a story. It must be tough being plagued by so many problems.
You are obsessed with Daddy and I backing into parking spaces. You call it Parking Like a Truck (because apparently only trucks back into parking spots? Even though we don't own a truck?) You were blessed by a daddy who thinks nothing of backing into a parking spot. Your mommy, however, has never figured out how to do it without it taking 45 tries and 15 minutes, so she just pulls through a parking spot and the end result is the same (but, for the record, my version is NOT Parking Like a Truck. According to you, it's only Parking Like a Truck if the car is in Reverse when the parking is complete.)
You're a Momma's Boy through and through. And it gives my heart such joy to be the recipient of a Momma's Boy's love. I love you (and your poor too-long-fingernail-that-prevents-you-from-emptying-the-dishwasher) more than you know.
Hugs and smooches,
Mommy & Daddy
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Headlines for July 9, 2015:
- South Carolina House approves removal of Confederate flag
- RNC chairman reportedly tells Trump to tone down remarks on immigration
- Microsoft waves the white flag in battle with iPhone and Android
- Open Criminal Investigation for Bill Cosby, LAPD Confirms
- Boko Haram willing to release Chibok girls in exchange for detainees
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