I thought our girl was a rough kid. (And she is.) I thought she liked to get dirty. (And she does.) I thought she could be destructive. (And she can.)
And then I had our boy.
His legs are reverse dalmatian, with white skin blotted out with black bruises of unknown origin. His clothes seem to turn slightly brown with dirt upon touching his skin. In less than three minutes, he can remove the outlet plate, screw and all, and expose all the wiring without using any tools other than his fingers. (I've seen him do it, and I'm still not sure how it happens.)
And he comes home from church with accident reports that say something like "he dove headfirst into a bin of building blocks without warning and without trying to stop himself or put out his hands."
Can you imagine that from this guy?
No, I don't know why his pajamas are partially unzipped.
He flies a bit more under the radar than his sister did. If she was up to no good, it was obvious. Even now, she comes to me and tells me, "Don't look at me, and don't follow me when I go to _______" if she's about to do something wrong. (And, yes, that means that I should
definitely look at her, pay attention to what she's doing, and follow her. Oh, how I pray that she will continue to tell on herself as she gets older!) He just quietly slinks away to see how many does-it-sink-or-float experiments he can do in the toilet water. (For the record, sippy cups, My Little Ponies, and toothbrushes float; Matchbox cars and Mr. Potato Head pieces sink.)
I love him. I love the new things I learn being his momma. I love that as much as our girl is Daddy's girl, he is Momma's boy, telling Lee first thing in the morning yesterday, "Hi, Daddy. I need Mommy."
And, yes, I did try to get a picture with him wearing antlers to match his red nose. Evidently he doesn't have enough self-respect to avoid splashing in toilet water, but his draws his dignity line at wearing reindeer headwear. Go figure.
