My mom used to tell me when I was little and my dad was gone and all her other kids were off at school or starting their lives, I was like her friend. I used to think she was crazy. What grown woman would be friends with a four year old? Now I get it.
The Baby and I are alone together quite often these days. He is at that magic age where he’s old enough to be independent and have great, creative thoughts and ideas while still young enough to think I hung the moon (most of the time). Spending time with him alone gives me the same rejuvenating satisfaction as a night with good friends.
When I pick him up from school, no matter how engaged he is in a great craft or game, his face lights up like fireworks on the Fourth of July (those swirly noisemaker kind). We walk out hand in hand and spend the rest of our afternoon chatting, playing and snuggling in front of Disney Channel.
Of course, there is no better part of the day for him then when his older brother and sister arrive home from school as they are his preferred playmates. But while it is only us two, he humours me with his attention. He is a delight, my little friend.
I used to wonder what we were thinking having three. Now I wonder how I ever lived without number three.
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