Sometimes I'm amazed at your depth, knowledge, and your kind, sensitive spirit. Other times I feel very frustrated by your desire to wrestle and rough house, the constant nagging to have good manners, and your need to always be right. I have to remind myself that you're only 9 and besdies that, boys will be boys.
I also remind myself of all the crazy boy stories of Papa's and your uncles and I tell myself this is all mild right now. I should be bracing myself for what's to come. I remember a time when your Papa blew up a couch with his friends in High School. It wasn't his couch. It wasn't even his friend's couch. It was Travis' mom's couch and they were borrowing it while they lived in the Frat house. One day Travis' mom called Grandma Cindy to see if she could get the couch back. "Um, well... Judy, the boy's blew up your couch," Grandma Cindy admitted to her. Instead of getting angry (maybe she did when her son got home?) Judy just laughed and said in her sweet little voice, "Oh, those boys".
Ah yes, boys. You were drawing in your church notebook a few Sunday's ago and I stole a peek to see what you were up to. You know the notebook I'm talking about, right? The one that says, "Private. Keep Out! Clara, this means you. I know you're looking" on the cover. You had drawn a picture of a snowman and underneath the snowman were what looked like snowballs. The caption at the top of the page however, said, "snowball poop." You and papa chuckled and I gave you the evil eye.
The next Sunday I saw you drawing a house and the top was labeled, " My Dream House". Throughout church I would glimpse over and see what you were doing next and there was page after page of hopes and dreams... My Dream Car... My Dream Backyard... My Dream Job... My Dream Money ($1,100,104,200.00)...