This is the boy who rides his bike in big loops around our small living room, careening past the corners of all of our tables, parents on edge.
This is the boy who learned to ride a two-wheeler without training wheels at age two and half.
This is the boy who loves trucks and bikes and cars and airplanes and trains and motorcycles and anything that goes. He giggles when you tell him stories about dirt bikes and how he will ride them someday.
This is the boy who calls high heels "Spiderman shoes" because Mommy doesn't wear them but the ladies in the costume catalog do.
This is the boy who can balance in said high heels with more grace that Mommy, too.
This is the boy who is terrified of people in costumes. He has already declared his distrust of Santa Claus.
This is the boy who loves to pretend to be our baby. To be held. And rocked. And cradled. And sung to. "Hush little baby don't say a word, Mama's going to buy you a..." "Dinosaur."
This is the boy who loves cats. Not dogs. Cats.
This is the boy who breaks into dance moves at the drop of a hat. And he has some moves, man.
This is the boy who wears and apron to help me cook and calls it his skirt.
This is the boy who hates the feel of dog hair on his hands. Who will call you out on a mess. Who makes me clean my house.
This is the boy who has the girls lining up to marry him.
This is the boy who can make rocket sounds all nap time long without falling asleep.
This is the boy who wants song after song at bedtime, sung about dirt bikes and race cars and kittens.
This is the boy who will take your quarter so he can pretend to play ski ball.
This is a boy who loves to sing and make up his own songs. Usually with only one loud, out-of-tune word.
This is the boy who will lovingly tend to his baby dolls needs, kissing her when she cries, and wrapping her up to lay her down to sleep.
This is the boy who has captured my heart.
