I’m not sure where the time went, but my fourth born just turned nine a couple of weeks ago. I’m a little freaked out by it, honestly. Seemingly overnight, he went from a teensy little bundle of squirmy boy to this:
WHAT?!? Are you kidding me? This little guy -or big guy, I should say- of mine is as easy on the heart as he is on the eyes. Sweet, kind, considerate and slow to anger is my boy. Don’t get me wrong; he’s plenty spunky. He’s a total stinkpot. This is the boy who in one day sat on the couch crying a little because he loves dogs so much and “kind of wants to be one” and wanted five more dogs (in addition to the three we already have) then five minutes later gave his baby brother an impromptu and unasked for haircut.
He’s my little drummer boy. He’s a wild man. He doesn’t walk; he bounces. One time my little sister said, “Can you imagine what great shape we’d all be in if we acted like Leif all the time?” She then tried for five minutes before giving up exhausted.
Remember Leif Ericson, the Viking? Do you also remember his nickname was Lucky Leif? Maybe it’s something about the name… This Leif of mine is THE four-leaf clover finding champion. As in, every time he goes out into our yard and there’s no snow cover, he finds at least five or six of them. There’s been a time or two that he’s found them even when there WAS snow. He finds them in other people’s yards. This is my Lucky Leif.
I like him.
I’ll keep him.
When asked what he wanted as his birthday cake, he exclaimed, “STRAWBERRY CAKE! With that chocolate shiney stuff!” Yes, sir. I’d do anything for you, you sweet little wild child. Well, except get another dog. That’s out. Sorry. The cake though? No problem.
Happy Birthday, Sweet Lucky Leif.