Tater Tots

Oh Tate, I haven't written about you in quite a while, which doesn't mean you haven't been doing anything blog-worthy. On the contrary, perhaps it's because you are doing SO much these days that I just can't wrap my brain around it all.

I mean, just this week while I was out running and Daddy and the boys worked in the yard, you figured out that Yes! you can pour yourself a bowl of cereal, milk and all. No adult help needed.

You recently determined that cleaning your room is "boring." Unless of course, Daddy has called and there is a prize involved. I have other words for cleaning your room, but I shall keep them to myself.

You have so many favorite songs that it's hard to provide for your musical tastes. I did manage to get a copy of "Apple Bottom Jeans" that we can play repeatedly in the car, atleast until I get my hands on "Thrift Shop."

You figured out how to order videos on my Kindle Fire and now we, ahem, you are the proud owner of 4 new cartoons. I, ahem, am paying the credit card bill. Oh, and I appreciate the impetus to learn to swtich on the Parental Controls. I had a nice long chat with the guy at Amazon.

You like girls! So much so that I'm getting tired and a little confused some days with the amount of role playing that goes on in the car, in the house, and at McDonalds. I guess it was inevitable that with two older brothers sporting girlfriends of their own, that you would choose one (or two) for yourself.

While I was busy watching Tucker pitch strikes and Tanner knock down grounders at shortstop, you managed to trek your bike all the way up the big hill at the ballpark and once at the top, careen down at topspeed, walkers beware. From the bleachers, I could only watch and pray as you hit your brakes right at the fence of the batting cages. Then? You did it again!

But I guess what stands out the most lately is your incessant desire to go to school. I explained to you the process of turning in our papers and waiting to hear if we were chosen for the Pre-K program. However, upon turning them in (the last day possible, no less) you politely asked the receptionist if you could see your classroom now. She just giggled. You, of course, were serious. We haven't heard any news yet, but that hasn't stopped you from asking every day if the school has called.

Don't you realize that if you go to school you can't wear pajamas and firehats and firejackets every day? Don't you realize that lunch at the McDonald's playground will come to a stop? Don't you realize that the teachers will send you home with work to do? Tests to study for? Letters to trace? Don't you realize that you can't nap when you want, where you want, and with the Blankie you want? Don't you realize what this means?

I won't get to help you pick which pajama shirt to wear or whether to wear the red, black, or yellow fire hat. I won't get to hear you talk about what you and Leena played on the playground. I won't have anyone to go to Kroger with me. I won't have a lunch date every day. I won't have to tell the burning building story every day on the way home from the Y. I won't have anyone to point out every Coke truck that passes. I won't have you.

I already had to send my other two best friends off to school. Do I really have to do it again?

Blue Eyes Smiling

On July 31st of 1999 I married the prettiest blue eyes I'd ever seen and thought I was the luckiest girl ever. A year and half later, I gave birth to another set of pretty blue eyes and became the luckiest Mom ever. Tucker, you were 40 weeks, 8 pounds 4ounces, and 21 inches of perfection, wrapped up in a tiny hospital blanket and cap. Twelve years later, you are still the picture of perfection, only now a 90 pound 4 foot tall version of perfection clothed in Nike and Under Armor. I can't believe how fast the years have gone and also how much we've done together in those twelve years.

We went strolling EVERY DAY, cruising the streets, the neighborhoods, the sidewalks until we'd waved at every neighbor, petted every puppy, and pointed at everything we found interesting.

We read books, cuddled up in the recliner with a sippy cup in your hand, cold can of Coke in mine. Ahhh, joy.

We counted dump trucks in the afternoon, pointing as each one passed the house, enjoying the comfort of our canopy swing underneath the tree.

We navigated the waters of fall football together, each of us jumping when we heard the front door slam, a sure sign that Coach was home for the night. We traveled to every high school in Cobb County, wandered through the stadiums, trekked up the bleachers with a diaper bag and a baby on my hips, and cheered on Coach's team until you drifted off to sleep to the sounds of the cheerleaders' chants.

We welcomed a baby brother and visited the hospital EVERY day until it was time to bring that new brother home. You introduced him to everyone at Wal-Mart and Kroger as Gigi, Lord only knows why.

We played on the deck and in the back yard. From tricycles to battery-powered cars to finally your first small bike, we raced and rolled the hours away, imagining dirt bike tracks and Nascar races in your future.

Then we moved, and you found new friends and kindergarten and baseball and flag football. You rode your bike without training wheels, went to birthday parties, and became Daddy's biggest fan and first assistant coach. You drew up plays for him and placed them all together in one big notebook to help him get ready for spring football.

And we moved again and nothing fazed you, not the distance, not saying good-bye to your first best friends, nothing. You took Jackson County by storm and made it your home and tackled challenges that some adults couldn't handle, let alone a 6 year old.

You wrote stories in school that made me laugh and gasp and swell with pride; you brought home honors on Awards Day for academic success and citizenship; you were baptized at church.

We brought home ANOTHER baby brother, and you took to him like a pro. You set the Big Brother bar pretty high and continue to do so every day. You babysit so I can get in a quick 5 miler, teach Tate about technology, and I'm pretty sure you deserve a t -shirt that says, "If mom says no, ask Big Brother."

We vacationed at the beach and I was thrilled to find that I had given birth to a person who loves the sun and sand as much as I do. We make new memories every summer at the best beach house in Destin, where you've gone from playing in the sand to riding the waves to bungee jumping at The Track.

And now you are turning twelve, breezing through middle school, soaking up all things history (your favorite subject), and mowing down batters from the pitcher's mound. And you are still Daddy's biggest fan.

I hope you know that we will always be YOUR biggest fans, and that on April 11, 2001, you were officially the most perfect thing I had ever laid these green eyes on.