Chuckster

Charlie boy, it's been almost seven months since I wrote to you, and while I could make a thousand excuses why so much time has slid by, mostly I'm just sorry. You're kind, articulate, patient, imaginative, agreeable, smart, adventurous, athletic, and oh so funny. In the past seven months, you've started school, gone absolutely out-of-your-mind-baby-crazy, and we've added a family of kids to our every day routine. We've been busy, but hey, what's new?

School was a big step for all of us. After your flawless, jump-in-with-both-feet first day, we lost a bit of momentum. You got anxiety when it was time for me to leave, and while everyone reassured me it would work itself out, I was a dang mess every time I left you. Finally, after almost two weeks of tears, the Co-op's director, Pat, watched you run full-force into your classroom yelling hellos to your teacher and friends and stopped me as I walked in saying, "I get it. These tears for the last two weeks aren't I-don't-want-to-be-here tears; they're I-love-you tears." Her words stopped me dead in my tracks. You told everyone how much you loved school, were so excited to go in the mornings, but as soon as I turned to leave, you lost your mind. Your tears never lasted long, and you were always so happy when I peeked into your classroom at pick-up. Pat nailed it. We'd spent the last three years together all day almost every day. I miss you too! So I followed you into your classroom that day with a little bit more perspective and understanding, and ever since, drop-off has been a breeze. You love school. Your classmates are sweet and their families are kind, and we've made new friends and learned to navigate this new world together. Your dad and I get to help in your classroom once a month, and it's unbelievably fun to watch you interact with all those funny, energetic, sweet three-year-olds. We couldn't have asked for a better teacher - Cass has your whole heart (you just asked if we could invite her to your birthday party...I die), and we feel so lucky to get to be a part of your first years of school. I can't even kind of believe you'll be in school every day next year. It's our next big step. I know you'll be ready.

Speaking of next big steps. You are a passive aggressive, sometimes just plain aggressive, downright baby crazy baby pusher! I can't even pinpoint when it all started, but in the last year or two almost all of our closest friends have added a tiny person to their family, and you are just green with envy. It started with a cute obsession, turned weird when you started asking random moms at the park, "How did you get two kids at your house?" and turned downright uncomfortable when the neighbor down the street introduced us to her new baby and, without acknowledging her tiny newborn, you said quietly to me, "Sure wish you would have one of those." and headed back to the playground. I scooped my jaw up off the pavement and tried to return to normal conversation. Truthfully, bud, your dad and I hope for nothing more than for you to be a sibling some day, but your dad and his brother are four years apart, and your uncle Kevin and I are five years apart, and both of those splits made for really great childhoods for us. Aside from the fact that you bring up something baby or sibling related every freaking day, we're in no rush. We love you. We want to give you everything you want, but a baby is a big ask, dude.

Luckily, to help ease some of the sibling void in your life, we've started picking up our neighbors from school in the afternoons. The boys are three and eight and are a great addition to our life. Their moms were looking for help, I was looking for something part-time that would fit into our schedule, and it all just seemed serendipitous. I love having a car-load of kids, taking y'all to new places around town, and working through homework and school projects, and you love having those boys around - Sawyer is one of your very best buds, and Evan is always including you in soccer games or wrestling matches or bike riding. In hindsight, I've asked you to be pretty flexible with this recent change, but you've taken it all in stride. I grew up with a community of kids and parents that I loved and loved me, and ever since you were young, I've hoped for the same for you. We've got a pretty solid little village surrounding us here in Austin. There's not much that makes me happier.

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And because I've missed so much, here's just a few of my favorite Chuck stories from the last seven months...

Holidays are just the best with you around. Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, Valentine's Day, and St. Patrick's Day have all passed, and it was the most fun to celebrate them with you. You have loads of questions - at some point during decorating for Christmas we got talking about the birth of Jesus, and by the time your dad got home from his run, you and I were discussing the resurrection. Your dad stood there trying to calculate just how long he had been gone.

You're forever stalling at bedtime lately, but sometime in the fall you shouted, "Moooooom!" And when I walked through the door, admittedly a bit perturbed, you said, "Hey mom, I gotta tell you something. I didn't know I was gonna get a mom like you. You're a really good one." My heart pretty much jumped right out of my chest. I didn't know I was going to get a boy like you, bud. You are undoubtedly the best.

You're a bike rider! I never thought you'd figure out that strider, and then after two weeks of daily painfully slow walks around the block, something just clicked. When we went to pick up your new bike the salesman was adamant that we take off the training wheels and put you right from the strider to a real bike. I was so skeptical. But sure enough just when I thought my back might break from running alongside you as you nervously pedaled, you got it and cruised right down to the end of the street on your own. It's amazing to see your three-year-old self pedaling on those two wheels. Last week you took off down the gigantic hill at the field by our house, and I had to bite my tongue practically off to stop myself from shouting for you to stop. You did it though, and when I got down to the bottom to congratulate you, you said, "Mom! I'm just like a rocket!" No doubt, bud. No doubt.

Your mispronunciation/confusion of words are just my absolute favorite - sidewalk is slidechalk, hamburger is hangerbanger, onion is minion, you're constantly confusing your knees, wrists and elbows, and just can't quite figure out what meal is breakfast, lunch or dinner. We love you anyway.

You've declared your presidency for 2048. Congratulations.

You picked all the teams in your first bracket challenge. I read off the names to you, and you picked without hesitation the whole way through. You gave me some insight into some of your selections, "Hawaii! That's where GaGa just was," or "Stephen F. Austin! I live in Austin. I love it here!" and I tried not to interject. When you continued to pick SFA to win the entire tournament, I just couldn't quite break it to you that they're a 14 seed and probably won't make it to Houston nor are they located in Austin. They have Austin in their name, and they're the Lumberjacks, so it actually seems like the most perfect pick for you. Godspeed.

We took you to the Wild Kratts show, and while you didn't completely get all the ins and outs of what was going on, you were cheering with both hands high over your head almost the entire show and couldn't stop exclaiming, "I CAN'T BELIEVE THEY ARE REAL LIFE!"

We bought you a new pair of jeans and a plaid button-down shirt for the Wild Kratt show, and well, you never take them off. I've started refusing to do your laundry because if it's clean, you wear that shirt no matter what we're doing. You call it your "fancy" shirt and are so proud of how you look in it. I'm kind of over it.

A bird crapped on my head just the other day as we walked into the doctor's office, and when I asked you if there was bird poop in my hair you said, "Oh yes," and after I checked in, I turned to tell you that we were heading to the bathroom, so I could wash out my hair, and you had your fingers pinching your little nose. I asked you what you were doing and you said, "I have to cover my nose because I'm pretty sure you smell disgusting."

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Your dad and I have endless stories to tell, but the short and sweet of it is you're hilarious, imaginative, and make life more fun that we ever thought it could be.