Thursday, June 07, 2012

Samuel: 39 Months

Oh my little Sambo (Sam + Rambo),

What a month it's been, you crazy boy! I feel like I can hardly get you to sit down (unless a show is on). You are a whirling dervish of a boy, full of life and energy, karate moves and sound effects. What a treat it is to have a boy!

And thus, a tribute. To all things boy.


If I had a dollar for every stick I removed from my car, the back yard, garage, front porch and surrounding areas, I'd have a lot of money for pedicures. You are constantly collecting sticks and using them in a variety of sword-fighting and light saber-wielding adventures. No stick is safe from your grasp.


Around 5:00 each evening, no matter what we've done, where we've gone, or what you've consumed, your face is always a sticky, dirty mess. It's like Pig Pen from Charlie Brown. The mess follows you. Sand sticks in every crevice and collects by the inchful in your boots and pockets. You're not afraid to stick your toes in something sticky or your head in something wet. It's remarkable, really.


Here you are, happy as can be, in the back of a police cruiser. Let's just hope it's the last ride you ever take. :) You talk about policemen and firemen non-stop, but when we had our chance last Saturday to talk to some real, live heroes, you shut up like a clam. No words, no excitement, just utter and complete shock. Even after getting the sticker badges, riding in a cruiser, and getting complimented by some sweet firefighters about your fire boots, you still remained silent. (That is, until we walked away. Then we couldn't get you to stop talking).

Here is a little montage of you dancing to the Vintage Music Collective last weekend. Once you opened up, you got right down to business with your very own dance moves. The booty shifting, leg raising Sam dance.


You've never really played organized sports before, but at church on Sunday the dads arranged you kiddos for a game of Steal the Bacon. When it was your turn, with a little coaching, you dominated! Grabbed that pigskin, took off sprinting, and carried it across your line with a smile on your face. I could hardly believe my baby was dashing across that field, long legs pumping, arms gripping that football tightly. When did you get so big?

And then, when it wasn't your turn anymore, you pouted and shrugged your shoulders and sat out in the shade. If the above two pictures don't perfectly capture what it is to be 3, then I'm not sure how else to spell it out. Pure, enthusiastic joy one minute; pouting frustration the next.

You still love to snuggle. As a matter of fact, the last two nights you've made your way in between Daddy and I early in the night. Generally, I'm alert enough to notice you come in, and I walk you back to your own bed. You've been coming in earlier and earlier (midnight, maybe?) and I'm so dead asleep I don't notice until a limb makes its way to my face. Then it's pretty difficult to deny your long-legged existence in our smallish queen bed. Yet I don't think Daddy or I is in any hurry to boot you out, not when you snuggle in close, lovingly stroke a cheek or an arm, and breathe quietly beside us.

You're such a wonderful, spunky, ornery, friendly, happy, crazy, funny little guy. Here's hoping that for every run down the football field, we've got another snuggle coming our way. At least for now.

Love you, sweet boy.


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