At this point in child rearing I freely admit that if you are the five year old, you are my favorite. There is something purely magical about this age and Maxwell Jonathan is where it's at.
Max's big day consisted of taking cupcakes to the park while I had a primary presidency meeting. Then we squeezed a birthday dinner in between cub scouts and YM activities and tried to stretch his tiny 8 inch cake between 7 people. No party, no balloons, no big celebration. I suck. Thankfully he was excited with his new snorkel gear and can't wait to buy a lego clone trooper set with his birthday money. At the end of the day his nightime prayers went like this: "Dear Heavenly Father, it's good to be five. Thanks for my toys and my family. Amen." It was the sweetest prayer for a kid who kind of got the shaft on his special day.
Max was really mad at me the other day and yelled that he wasn't going to be black anymore; he was going to paint himself white. I told him I already had white boys. "Then I'll paint myself RED!" he yelled in defiance. Then he called me "poopie people" for added emphasis.
Today he was so proud of himself when he said, "I let Eliza borrow my snorkel gear WITHOUT my permission!" I was teasing him a little today and told him I couldn't let him go to kindergarten because I would have no one to play with. "Who will I play with when Marcos is taking a nap?" Without missing a beat he replied, "Mom, you are going to have to just work instead." In actuality, I am going to miss him when he goes to school and not just because he is such a good brother to Marcos.
Of all my my kids Max has seemed to need me the most. That neediness has forged an interesting bond between us, different from the other kids. I think I need him as much as he needs me. He is my boy, my special, one and only black boy.
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