He is Huckleberry Finn. Eventually, he'd get hungry or cold and come crawling back
to the Widow Douglas home but it would take awhile.
He explores. He's brave. Sticks and rocks and rivers and the expanse of nature are his friends. He was born, in a word, content. Of course has his moments. He lost his stamp today at school which means he did something to completely aggravate his teacher. I told him to go up to her tomorrow and say, "I'm sorry that I'm turning into the kid your professors warned you about." He didn't think that sounded like a good idea. He's far from perfect, is what I'm saying. But he has a gentle, peaceful spirit and I often find myself envying his nature.
Every day my heart swells with love for that kid.
This one is, in a word, exquisite. He is a gorgeous, talented little man. I find myself watching him when he isn't looking, captivated by his smile. Not infrequently do I find myself mumbling about his beauty.
He's four. He can do headstands, score soccer goals, outrun anyone his own age, do a somersault in the pool, hang from anything for any amount of time--it seems--and the list only continues to grow. His muscles are incredible. I should have known when he lifted his head off my shoulder to stare at me in the hospital on the very day of his birth that he was special. What baby has strong enough neck muscles to do that? He's getting braver, venturing farther from my side, growing up.
He, too, is far from perfect, but he is so...exquisite. So...yummy.