“Three year old boy.” Once upon a time those words meant nothing to me, but now…Gregory has permanently changed that. He’s going to be four next month. His personality: alternately sweet and stubborn, exasperating and heart-melting.

Washing his car. Industry is one of his favorite occupations.

Still doesn’t know how to blow his nose.

Loves to organize my kitchen drawers, and he’s good at it.

Also loves sawing with his dad’s Leatherman, any other tools, and helping us with any work outside.

Can’t say Rs or Ls or THs.

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The other morning, while climbing into his chair and worried that the maple syrup would soak into his pancake before he got a chance to spread it around: “Uh. UH. UH.”

Me: Quit fussing.

Him: I’m not fussing, I’m GWOANING.

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Last night, at 1:30: Mommy. Mommy. MOMMY. (What?) I’m hot. (pull the quilt down.) Okay, just weave it wike dat.

1:37: Mommy. MOMMY. (What?) His elbow hurts, please kiss it. Also his window shade needs to be pulled down a half inch. Okay, dat’s good.

1:48: Fake sobs. (What?) His thumb hurts, and his back is so hot when he wies on it, but when he wies on his side, den his wegs hurt. He needs cooler jammies. (No you don’t. Warning parental glare: don’t call me in here again.)

1:55: Whimpers. (WHAT?) I didn’t call you. But my tummy’s hurting. (Do you need to go potty?) Yes. Slowly gets up. Stares down the hall. Stands in the bathroom. Scratches armpits. Scratches butt. Stares vacantly at the wall. (GET DONE.) Goes potty, goes back to bed, goes back to sleep.

(Mommy lies awake with her old friend insomnia until 5:00.)

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Bronwyn: Gregory, what’s your favorite restaurant?

Him: Talize.

Hahahaaa…it’s a secondhand store where he knows good treasures come from.

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