So last night round about eleven o'clock Tiny Pants yakked on the stairs, one of the few carpeted areas of my my house. But this isn't about that.
When you are the only adult at home and your kidlet yaks on the carpet, you have to choose between cleaning it up and snuggling the baby. I went with "put a towel over it and pretend it didn't happen," because that boy needed Mama more than I needed yak-free carpet. But this isn't about that, either.
This about a little six year old boy whose head is overflowing with stories. This is about the love and pride I felt when Tiny Pants said, "I had a sideways taste in my mouth, and it got tighter and tighter until I had to throw up."
School might not come easy to Tiny Pants. He will always find the idea of following the rules purely optional. I quake with fear when I contemplate his teenage years. But that little guy has the heart of a poet, and poets are heroes. Big Pants cruises through school and does his homework without being told, and loves strategy and chess and football. Tiny Pants is cut from an altogether different cloth, but I'm just as sure that he will find his way through life just fine, if he keeps following the stories in his soul. I wouldn't change him for the world.