Micah: "Damn it. I'm silly."

This was not a quote from Fay Dunaway or my flamboyant neighbor, Roger,  in West Hollywood.  No, this was a quote from my 3 year old son as he casually trotted out down the hall with an armful of stuffed animals.  It should also be noted that he was pantless.  And this is how he rolls:  direct and with varying degrees of nudity.  While I don't condone the mild curse words coming from his lisping, raspy little mouth, I do have to commend the good usage of the words.  Because, damn it, he really is silly.

I spend most Tuesdays and Thursdays with Micah.  He doesn't have preschool those days and so I take the opportunity to be a stay-at-home mommy on those two days.  There is no down time, no dull time, no let's-lay-down-and-take-a-nap time with Micah.  He hits the ground running at 6:00 am and shifts comfortably into 5th gear by 8:00 am.  In fact this morning after dropping Luke off for his last day of kindergarten, Micah sighs in the back seat and says "Man...I'm tired."  You and me both, kid.  It was 9:00 am.

We have joked that Micah is our little Prefontaine because he doesn't walk anywhere.  Throw a sweatband around his head and he's a dead ringer for 1970's icon with his wispy flowing hair, head cocked back and arms held tight to his solid little body as he strides around the yard, the beach, Target.  He is a sturdy little specimen.  But what makes him truly fun (and silly!) is the steady flow of awesome commentary on things that I have overlooked, either by accident or on purpose.  (And now I devolve into some bathroom talk, so look away if this ain't your cup o' tea.) I am in the kitchen this afternoon and Micah proudly proclaims "I gotta poop!"  Since he has only been potty trained for 2 months, I still give him the pumped up, go gettem' mommy cheer.  He returns to the top of the stairs a minute later in a move that is a combination of sliding into second base and Tom Cruise from Risky Business.  Again he is pantless.  "No poop.  Just peep."  I assure him that is okay and then he looks at me and with a bit of a suggestive smirk says "Mom, maybe you have to go peep?" in the same tone a waiter uses when asking if you've saved room for dessert.  "I'm good, Babe.  Go get your pants."  I appreciate his concern.

He scurries away again and it's a little bit too quiet upstairs.  A few more minutes go by and then I hear a large exclamation of intrigue and shock.  I rush upstairs assuming he has rubbed the Bengay on his face again.  But, no, this time he has done the deed.  And as he admires his work he says "Look at that!  How did that come out of my body?"  I think the same thing when I look at him and his brother.  "That's not even a fire bomb poop.  That's like a daddy poop!"  A fire bomb poop?  What is it with guys (of ALL ages) and their fascination with this inescapable part of existence?  Anyone with a household with more than one male knows what I am talking about.  More than two males and it becomes a new dialect of poop-related science that can apply to all non-poop related subjects.  (At least our hamster, Sunshine, is a girl.)  Nonetheless, the little guy made me laugh.

Tonight, as I snuggled Micah on the couch, I nuzzled his little soft cheek and told him I loved him.  I do this, in part, selfishly because I love his typical response.  "I love you all the time."  He crashed but a few minutes later before the sun even fell out of the sky.  He lives life in a very vibrant way...fast, sweaty, happy.  And even when he gets mad at me, usually for denying him yet another treat, he will say "Fine.  I'm not your mom anymore."  I just nod and agree with him, don't bother to try to explain that technically he has never been my mom.  Because even when he's angry, he is adorable.  Ultimately, he is a little fun bun.  My little short stack.  And he is silly, indeed.