my reflection

L has a baby book that lasts to about 11 months. G's only lasts to about five months. One thing I want to do this year is use this blog, among other things, to remember. I want to print the posts about my boys so they can read them one day and laugh. So from time to time, you'll see a post like this...a detailed post about how they are at this age. Feel free to read them...or not.
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I started wanting two boys back in high school. I was the worst teenager ever and knew that if I ever had a girl, she'd end up just like me. After all, my mom wished that upon me enough times that it'd surely come true.

So I figured as long as I had boys, I was golden.

It never occurred to me that I could create a boy just like me.

The older L gets, I look at him and see my reflection.

He doesn't know a stranger. We go to the grocery store and he strikes up a conversation with the checker about his upcoming first soccer game. He insists that I ask the drive-thru girl's name at Sonic when we go through for a drink he's earned. He likes people and he likes to talk to them. It takes most people aback, but I was the same way. (B would tell you that I still am. It's debatable. )

Tonight, he was telling me about his teacher working one on one with him at school. I asked how he felt when he is called over to her table; if he likes it. He bashfully shook his head. I asked him why not and he shrugged. The kid excels at school. I asked if it makes him nervous and he nodded, a bit embarrassed. The next ten minutes, I found myself giving him a pep talk about how he needs to think of that time as a time to show her how good he is; so Miss Mitzi knows what he knows. It appears that he's also inherited my lack of confidence...perfectionism. Mama's going to have to work on breaking that cycle.

L lost his temper a couple of days ago and hit G in the head with his new Cars matchbox car. He lost it for four days and it's killing him. The first day, the very first thing he said to me upon picking him up from preschool was, "It's only been one day." The kid has over 100 cars but he can't stop obsessing over it. Tonight, he asked us if he could "just wook at it." We stuck to our guns and said no. He ran to the counter, where it's put away, then sauntered back, and said, "If I pushed my stool to the counter, I could look at it."

Giving him the look, I asked what he thought would happen. "You'd get mad," he answered, quietly.

"But what would happen?" I asked. "You think you might lose it for more days? Then it would be even longer without your car?"

"Yeah," he quietly pouted, slowly walking away.

Me. That kid is me. I'd threaten to do the wrong thing, knowing I'd back down as soon as my parents told me I'd better not. I'd throw the world's hugest tantrums when I got sent to my room, slamming my door and screaming at the top of my lungs. I'd befriend the new neighbor. I'd talk so much that my parents would beg me to just stop talking for a few minutes. I'd sob if a teacher redirected me too harshly. I'd worry. I'd snuggle up under a blanket, absolutely drinking in a book that was read to me. I'd have to check out every public restroom. I'd cry at movies.

They say it's hell raising yourself. But I'm going to try to rock this. L deserves nothing less.