Max the Stormtrooper, center
My next post will be about Harry, who is turning five, really 15, in about five minutes. But right now, as I stare down at my sleeping baby Max, I am trying to block out the EPIC battle it took to get here.
Rob and I believe that Max was born a two-year-old. In temperament, that is. So now that he has fully embraced his two-year-old irrational madness, things have been amped up a notch for all of us. The good thing is that I feel like Rob and I are trying to recognize it more for the beautiful insanity it is. (Although Mommy and Daddy do still take timeouts when certain two-year-olds emerge from a timeout only to "CLUSH" --or "crush" as everyone else says it -- his brother's Lego police station just to show everyone that he is in charge.) We know Max will move on from this -- we hope -- and turn into a teenage boy who does not hug his mom (wah) or wear his every emotion on his sleeve. But now, his sleeve can be truly hilarious at times. He can be a complete maniac for a second, then run up, demand the biggest hug, grab Daddy's face in his hands and say "I love you." Sigh. Every OMG YOU LITTLE *&^^% is generally followed up by a "Sigh. You are the sweetest thing" within a few minutes. He's a master.