Let's start off with my first born. He is five. My husband's and my genes must have feared he would be our only offspring, because I'm pretty sure we genetically tried to cram all of us into his tiny little body.
He is the epitome of both our extreme personalities. He is mouthy (ahem, that would be me as a child) and he has anger and temper issues (Dad as a child - actually till college). He has an insane imagination and makes up so many stories (me, me, me) and he has an amazing artistic talent and draws much in advance of his age (that would be his daddy all over).
He is Mr Melodramatic (I have NO IDEA where in the world he could ever had mined his talent for over-exaggeration AT ALL. NO IDEA!) and he talks about 97% of his waking hours (and not surprisingly, 5% of his sleeping hours - and you should hear some of the things he says in his sleep! Hahahahah)
In fact, he is chattering away at me as I write this, even though, shameful Mommy that I am, I stopped listening about 10 minutes ago.
When I consider how much he has packed into his skinny-butt body at age five, and I multiply that by three in order to imagine what he will be like at age fifteen . . . well, let's just say I barely prevented myself from passing out and as soon as I post this, I will drop to my knees and plead with God that isn't how it works, because I can tell you right now if that's the case, one of us won't survive that long.
