Three and Three-Quarters

Yesterday we were driving in the rain when he let out a big, dramatic sigh.

“Mama, I’m sad.”

“Why are you sad, buddy?”

(another big sigh) “Because we never, EVER get to go to space!”

“Where?!”

“Space! You know, up there!” (points to the sky)

“Well, dude, I wish we could go, but we don’t have a rocket.”

“I know! Let’s just go to the rocket store! That’d be a good idea?”

Tate at almost four-years-old is my favorite. Sure, I’m biased and sure, I say the same thing at every, single age. But this time it’s true. At three and three-quarters, Tate is a silly, stubborn caricature of himself. I could not love this little imp more. He loves cars, trucks and airplanes. He is very upset we don’t take daily trips to the water park in October and all of his hair-brained schemes are followed with the statement, “That’d be a good idea?”

Tate is obsessed with counting and sorting, constantly putting everything in it’s place, even if he believes it’s place is right on my face. He wakes up every morning with an enthusiastic, “Good morning, mama! I sleep all night!” While I appreciate his joy, that’s usually not the truth, as he still wakes up fairly often during the night needing to go to the bathroom/get a drink/tell me he loves me/yell at the dog. He always seems to forget about it in the morning, and when I gently remind him, he looks thoughtful for a minute, like he’s trying to decide whether I’m just hoarding all the sticker chart prizes for myself.

This little man is three parts independent, two parts mama’s boy, and I feel the tides changing. Every day he becomes more of himself and less of me. He rides his bike like the big kids and wants to do everything by himself. He falls down and rarely needs a kiss or hug, mostly jumping back up, ready to try again.

Today, I’m savoring three and three-quarters, with all it’s big plans and obscure references. It’s pretty much the best.