The Only Boy

He plays with his trucks, holding one in each hand. He pushes them across the floor and laughs hysterically when they crash into each other.
"He's such a boy", I find myself thinking.

He pours his bucket of dinosaurs out onto the rug, and then sets them all up around the room. He makes loud growling noises as they advance upon each other and fight mock battles.
"He's so different from his sisters...he's such a boy", I find myself thinking.

He grabs Amy's toy shopping cart and races around the house with it. He smashes into every wall, door and piece of furniture, and howls with laughter when he bounces off a wall and lands hard on the floor.
"He's such a little boy", I think to myself.

He cracks his little head hard on the kitchen table when he attempts to stand up before crawling out from underneath, but he doesn't cry. He lets out a yell of aggravation and continues on his way.
"He's such a boy", I think once again.

But at the end of an afternoon of rough play, he toddles over to me and lifts up his arms. I pick him up, and he cuddles in close. He puts his head on my shoulder and his arms around my neck. His little hand pats my back, and we spend a few minutes snuggling.

"He's still such a baby", I find myself thinking. "Not so different from his sisters after all. He's still my little baby boy".