He woke up and dressed himself (naturally). After surviving Calvin's early fashion independence, Silas became my only hope for being sent off to school in cute cargo shorts and a polo. Alas.... what we had was a quadruple-hand-me-down muscle shirt with a stain on the front.
To commemorate the day, I busted out a pair of handed-down sneaks, proclaiming them "Your new school shoes!" He totally bought it.
For all of my stewing about him and his maddening behavior and such, at the end of the day, he's still a 3 year old, one with a complicated start to life. He doesn't need to have all of life figured out. It's okay if he's a little on the wild side. His teachers seem ready for it.
He's growing and learning. He's throwing his weight around and doling out precious bits of information like, "I share my motorcycles" and "My fwiend cried but I say, 'Your mommy come back!'"
It slays me to watch him become more uniquely Silas Park, the boy he was always meant to be. He's cuddly and curious. Tough and resilient. He's a hilarious show-boat and I'm hopelessly addicted to smooching him. Don't even try to make me stop. He's ours - he's everything God knew we needed.
He drives us batty and exhausts us daily, but he tells us with recent regularity, "I love you, Mommy." "I like you." "You my fwiend."
It covers a whole host of ills.
Or maybe I'll fritter them all away reading blogs and napping.
Anything is possible.