Yesterday's post was about my number one son. Today represents equal time to my Jr. Mint, my son who disallows the description "number two son". His reasoning? "I'm NOT poop."
This picture is my favorite and most accurate visual description of my second born. Not to put too fine a point on it, he's a hoot. And a half.
This child's essence, his aura, is just - I dunno, magnetic. He's full of piss and vinegar, is certainly at least half monkey, he's a prankster, a practical joker, a hugger, a passionate lil fella with huge highs and lows and he never. Ever. E-V-E-R. Is silent. Ever. ever
If he is not speaking, he's singing. If he's not singing, he's whistling. If he's not whistling, he's humming. If he's not humming, he's clicking, clapping, clopping, banging, boinging, chattering, prattling, rattling, clucking, cackling, growling, howling, screeching, *sigh* or gibbering.
....and ALWAYS moving.
Hands are always busy. Picks up everything he sees. We've tried to soften the negative implications of that issue using fidget toys. His observation on that subject? "Mom. I have TWO hands. You gave me ONE fiddle toy. I still have another hand to pick stuff up with." Accompanying that statement, an exaggerated eyeroll for dramatic effect.
Hate it when they're right.
The sweet creature does not have one single private thought. If he's thinkin' it, you know it. If it comes up, it comes out. Absurdly, as peevishly abrading as one would theorize that to be, it has a strangely charismatic effect. My Jr. Mint is very knowable. He has many interests and hobbies and as social and verbal as he is, if you know him - even if you've just met him- you know what they all are. Right away. It imparts a sense of intimacy, a warm fuzzy feeling like you get when you've known someone all your life.
A rare shot with his mouth closed.
I have the same parental feelings of insecurity about this one as Eldest. They're not quite as far along though, given he's four years younger. In the spot in my heart where I have sad feelings of Eldest leaving in five years at which time I still won't be finished talking with him, won't have soaked up enough of him, won't have heard his voice enough, felt his presence enough, I have feelings with Jr. Mint that we won't have spent enough time together in silence. That we won't have experienced enough together - enough of the things that go without saying. With both of us being jabbermouths, consummate gasbags, I worry not that anything will go unsaid, but something will go undone. Some experience he needs.
Again, hopefully he'll grow up successfully to be a good man despite me instead of because of me. However it happens I'm ok with it, as long as it happens.
My Mom has always said she didn't love any one of her three children more or less, but she does love them the same but differently. I only had an understanding of that complicated concept when I became a parent myself. I love my children with the same breadth, the same girth, the same largess, each impossibly miraculous boy the same. But different. They are "fearfully and wonderfully made," "the apple of His eye", and "His treasured possessions." He gave them to me to train up and enjoy so they could be the apple of my eyes too. My treasured possessions.
For a little while.