Stuff I Always Mean to Write Down

My son told me yesterday that he wrote about me in his school journal. "I wrote that you are gorgeous," he said shyly. "I was going to also write that you are beautiful, but I ran out of room."

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Last night he had gas and his tummy was hurting, so I suggested that he try sitting on the toilet to see if that helped. "I don't want to do that!" he wailed. When I reminded him that pooping or passing gas sometimes help certain kinds of tummy trouble, he told me, "But I already pooped today, and I only pass gas once a season!" (Editor's note: I beg to differ.)

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We were in a rush today, so I told him I'd make his lunch later and bring it to him, but I'd probably just sneak it into his backpack and not hang around for lunch. He left with his dad, and a few minutes later the phone rang. "Mom?" he said. "The sneaking-my-lunch-into-my-backpack thing is really a good idea, because I don't want the other kids to hurt your hand, okay?" (Editor's note: When I stand in the breezeway as the kids file by for lunch, they like to give me some mighty hard high-fives.)

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The other day, he was getting ready for bed and was wearing his ever-fashionable t-shirt and undies combo. I hugged him and patted his cute little bottom, then jokingly asked if he would still let me pat his bottom when he's a big boy. "Well," he said after some thought, "yes, but not when anyone is looking."