Despite my many, many, (many) posts about the marathon, I haven't lost sight that my first priority is always to be a mom first, runner second. Thankfully, Scott has made that easy. So while the blog hasn't given him much love lately, I thought I'd dedicate today's entry to him.
(and when Scott is 14 and annoying the crap out of me, please remind to read this entry over so I can remember he really was a great kid).
Of all the ages, four is the best so far. I am loving it. LOVING IT. Birth to 12 months? Meh. You are essentially just trying to keep the kid alive. Lots of body fluids, sleep deprivation, and a steep learning curve. Twelve to 24 months? Don't even get me started. This was my least favorite age. You have a mobile creature without a shred of common sense. They pitch around like drunken sailors, unable to communicate except by screeching at the top of their lungs. Your house becomes a mine field of lethal disasters and sleep is still not guaranteed. I shudder just thinking about that year.
If you can survive the first two years, you are rewarded by eventually ditching the diaper bag. Years two to three are easier because the creature starts to communicate with you. It may not be what you want to hear, but at least their vocab has expanded past the word, "NO!" And years 3 to 4 seem to be all about socialization; don't hit your friend, stop hitting the cat, I said, don't hit the cat! This is right around the time you wonder if your child is going to be a serial killer. PUT THE CAT DOWN!
Which brings me to four. Glorious, glorious four. Such a magical age. Four is like the reward for all of the suffering of the past three years. Four is when your child brushes your hair and tells you (sincerely) that you are pretty. Four is when they clear their own plates from the table and take out the recycling. Four is when you prefer their company over a considerable number of other people in your life. They insist on zipping your hoodie all the way to the top, "just to keep you warm, Mom." You have, with 99.9% assurance, they will in fact, not grow up to a be a serial killer. They have finally stopped hitting the cat.
A snapshot of Scotty at four? He still wants to go to Stanford and be a sea otter doctor. He loves books, drawing, swimming, and his best friend Kate. He identifies with Scott "Squishy" Squibbles from "Monsters University" and loves riding his bike with Dad. He understands why we eat vegetables, when to calm down, and how to wipe his bottom. Four is glorious, indeed.
Here, Scotty is playing "Dada" by wearing his glasses. Funny, he should just yell at the TV; that's probably more accurate. Considering his genetic pool, there is a very good chance his "play" will become reality very soon. Brian and I both have the eyesight of moles.
(and when Scott is 14 and annoying the crap out of me, please remind to read this entry over so I can remember he really was a great kid).
Of all the ages, four is the best so far. I am loving it. LOVING IT. Birth to 12 months? Meh. You are essentially just trying to keep the kid alive. Lots of body fluids, sleep deprivation, and a steep learning curve. Twelve to 24 months? Don't even get me started. This was my least favorite age. You have a mobile creature without a shred of common sense. They pitch around like drunken sailors, unable to communicate except by screeching at the top of their lungs. Your house becomes a mine field of lethal disasters and sleep is still not guaranteed. I shudder just thinking about that year.
If you can survive the first two years, you are rewarded by eventually ditching the diaper bag. Years two to three are easier because the creature starts to communicate with you. It may not be what you want to hear, but at least their vocab has expanded past the word, "NO!" And years 3 to 4 seem to be all about socialization; don't hit your friend, stop hitting the cat, I said, don't hit the cat! This is right around the time you wonder if your child is going to be a serial killer. PUT THE CAT DOWN!
Which brings me to four. Glorious, glorious four. Such a magical age. Four is like the reward for all of the suffering of the past three years. Four is when your child brushes your hair and tells you (sincerely) that you are pretty. Four is when they clear their own plates from the table and take out the recycling. Four is when you prefer their company over a considerable number of other people in your life. They insist on zipping your hoodie all the way to the top, "just to keep you warm, Mom." You have, with 99.9% assurance, they will in fact, not grow up to a be a serial killer. They have finally stopped hitting the cat.
A snapshot of Scotty at four? He still wants to go to Stanford and be a sea otter doctor. He loves books, drawing, swimming, and his best friend Kate. He identifies with Scott "Squishy" Squibbles from "Monsters University" and loves riding his bike with Dad. He understands why we eat vegetables, when to calm down, and how to wipe his bottom. Four is glorious, indeed.
Here, Scotty is playing "Dada" by wearing his glasses. Funny, he should just yell at the TV; that's probably more accurate. Considering his genetic pool, there is a very good chance his "play" will become reality very soon. Brian and I both have the eyesight of moles.
Scott showing his excitement over a breakfast of sea creature waffles. (best tip ever, Kristen!!)
Scott drawing on his dry erase board...over and over and over again.
(tip to parents: this is the best investment, ever. We have a little one we take to restaurants, too. It keeps him busy for hours, wastes no paper, and is great way to practice writing/drawing. When I get him new markers as a treat, he's over the moon. Who can resist the lure of new markers??)
(tip to parents: this is the best investment, ever. We have a little one we take to restaurants, too. It keeps him busy for hours, wastes no paper, and is great way to practice writing/drawing. When I get him new markers as a treat, he's over the moon. Who can resist the lure of new markers??)
Scott just didn't dress up as a sea dragon for Halloween; he actually was a sea dragon. He is showing serious signs of method acting. Maybe he and Nicolas Cage need to hang out sometime.
Speaking of Halloween, Scotty had a great time celebrating with his friends at school. Here, he and Kate model their costumes. Kate's mom wanted Kate to be Minnie Mouse; Kate insisted on being a doctor. I told Scotty to stick close to this one.
(She, too, wants to go to Stanford. No joke. Class of 2031?)
(She, too, wants to go to Stanford. No joke. Class of 2031?)
And finally, Scotty loves pouring through his many shark books. He seems to enjoy mostly non-fiction. Who cares if Biscuit went to the pumpkin patch? We are currently deep into "Sixgill Blunt Nose Sharks; Creatures of the Deep" and loving every page of it. (well, he is. I'm just along for the ride).
Oh, four. I love you.
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