Three is such a fun, funny, and frightening age. You are so full of life and zest and humor; you are also full of it, in general. So many nights I either leave your room completely in stitches laughing, tears in my eyes from your incredible sweetness, or up to my eyeballs in frustration. It's all about the extremes, baby boy.
At only three years old and two months, you have an advanced degree in weaponry. You wield a sword like you've been training with the knights of the round table as a young squire. You point guns (and sticks and golf clubs and bats and any other object resembling guns) with accuracy and often a little too close for comfort. Almost every toy becomes an eventual weapon of mass destruction in your hot little hands. I'm not sure how and where you've learned such precise, impassioned, accurate use of cutlasses, swords, guns, rifles, slingshots, box & arrows, and the like, but I'll just chalk it up to one of the mysteries of man.
It's no secret that your Mama loves her some Hawaiian Daddy; on vacation he's relaxed, adventurous, joyful, and full of fun. After our recent vacation I can say that I pretty much love me some Hawaiian Sam, too. You were crazy and energetic, adventurous and silly. I loved watching your little brain think of ways to play on the tree and hill outside our condo. One specific afternoon I watched as you stood on the boogie board and rode it down a (very steep) hill, shouting "Woo HOO!!!" the whole way down. Your brain just follows a different operating code. You think outside the box and are unafraid to try new things, often as I watch, holding my breath, as you navigate taller trees, steeper hills, stronger waves, and further distances. Feeling very grateful that your strong and sturdy body is constantly surprising me with its capability.
You're starting to resist the camera, much to my discontent. Where you once used to light up with glee and flash me a cheesy grin, you now throw a open hand my way, shouting, "No Mama! No camera right now!" I'll need to invest in a telephoto lens to continue documenting your funny and frightening moments.
You and your sister continue to be quite a pair. Though we are moving out of the delightful, intense sibling love and more into the arena of sibling dispute. I feel like our trip to Kauai and the weeks after have been one big argument. The competition is at an all-time high, as is the demand for my constant attention. "Watch me, Mommy!" you say, approximately forty times a day. I play a referee much of the day, intervening when things get ugly, sending you back to your corners to cool down. It's nuts. But when the love is there, it's fierce. You love your "MahMah" like nobody else.
This past week I had the pleasure of attending a Mother's Day Tea in your classroom. We listened (and teared up) as your sweet teacher read Love You Forever, one of my all-time favorite books. We sat and enjoyed a delightful snack together, cookies and punch and water and strawberries. You handed me a beautiful bouquet of hand-made flowers (and I noticed how much bigger your "buds" were than all the others, my sweet 97th percentile boy). And then, the coup de grace, a hand-decorated picture frame, covered in stickers you picked out yourself. Such a treat to see how you have grown and blossomed this year.
But above all else, above the weapons and sibling fights, above your adventurous spirit and "tricks," I think I'll best remember this stage of life by your outfits. You are expressing yourself more and more through clothes these days. Always, always in the repertoire are boots: cowboy boots, fireman boots, and, most recently, Maddie's fake uggs. And usually on the wrong feet. You like it that way. A t-shirt, short sleeved. Jeans. In Hawaii I had to hide the pair of jeans you wore on the plane because I knew you would try to wear them every day (and, consequently, we'd have to fight to get you into your swimsuit every morning). Also on vacation, you asked at least once a day about your Hee-Haw Man boots, which I reminded you were left behind in the car in California. No sooner had we exited the airport and entered our old explorer, than you kicked off your crocs, pulled on those boots, and sighed a huge sigh of relief.
You bring such joy and life to our family. You shower us with affection and love. We can't imagine our mornings without your exuberant door-slamming or sweet cuddling. Thanks for keeping things light, for keeping us on our toes, and for staying out of the ER (so far).