My baby is five. FIVE.

If you knew me five years ago you knew I couldn’t keep a plant alive. I was also 23, married all of 9 months, and turned in my thesis 5 days before having a baby. We were living in Connecticut. I slept and showered back then too.

And then I had a 10lb 8oz baby with the most adorable fat rolls and line backer shoulders. 2lbs of his birth weight had to be hair.
He slept through the night at 6 weeks. SIX weeks, people. No colic. Super happy. Content. He tricked me into thinking babies were easy so I said, “Hey, why don’t we have another one!”

I am so thankful that he is my son. He is smart, funny, and the best big brother to E. I love when he asks me to snuggle him or for one more kiss or to read another book. B loves to play games, go to church, go to hometeam, and playing with his friends.
He admires his father, grandfathers, uncles, and old and new roommates. He knows everything about Star Wars and hasn’t even seen one of the movies yet.

He will lie about brushing his teeth and washing his hands. He will cheat at a game if I don’t pay attention. He will wear the same shirt days in a row and never washes his hair. He laughs when his brother is crying and he hides underwear in with his PJs.

B will tell me things will be okay because we have Jesus. He will tell me the favorite part of his day was spending it with me. He will tell me when I look pretty and I am his favorite girl. B tells me all that he loves me because I am his best mommy. He holds my hand when we go on walks.

Goodness.