Judah Picture Page

Ah, Judah. There's something about a little (big) boy that just warms a mother's heart. Yesterday afternoon, Abe was washing a few dishes. While I will assure you that that is not a frequent occurrence, it is not completely out of the ordinary. Mostly. So there he is, sudsing away, when precious Judah gave him what-for: "Daddy, boys aren't supposed to wash dishes! Only girls!" Abe laughed and immediately sent Judah to tell me this piece of breaking news.

I shouldn't have been surprised, then, when, upon seeing his Auntie Moriah in a t-shirt with a picture of a tractor on it declared, "Girls don't like tractors! Only boys!"

Ah, Judah. Sweet Judah. I couldn't even get it together enough this year to write you a Happy Birthday post. But it's not because I don't love you, or that it's not important to me; it's because every time I sit down to try to write about you, I am at a loss for words. I'll sit down to type a glowing review of you and a list of the thousands of reasons why I love you, and then you hit Ruby over the head with a truck, and I find my praise a little bit derailed. I catch myself saying, "Where was I again?" and I give up on the post and decide to write about you when I am in a better frame of mind. You are in one moment totally obstinant, and cuddly and compliant in the next. One minute, you're laying down the rules for gender roles (which I will teach out of you), and when next I catch a glimpse of you, you've put on your sister's dress up princess shoes. You will pour yourself a glass of milk or juice without assistance, but balk when I suggest you select your own apple from the fridge.

You used to be quite timid. And there are situations when you still are, and that's okay with me. But I'm delighted that you beg me to let you go to your class at church. And I'm thrilled that you have a sense of adventure when you're playing. I love a boy with abandon, and boy, you've got it. Especially when your cousin is not pushing you around.

You are at times obsessive about having clean hands, and you're always the first to request a napkin when we're eating. But it does not bother you in the least to walk around with food on your face. Can you not feel it? At any rate, in most of my recent photos of you, you've got some sort of chocolate mustache. At least we won't forget it.

And the whole hitting-your-sister-with-a-truck thing? It really happened. In her crib. You went in to "keep her company," which is not out of the ordinary. You love that baby like no other. But when, minutes later, she was crying after taking some lug wheels to the head, I was a bit miffed. And mystified. At what point does "I love my Ruby" turn into "...so I will now throw this Tonka at her."?

But I suppose it is your slight unpredictability--I say slight because you really are quite a joy most of the time--that makes you so intruguing. While I would never say that Charis was a high-needs baby, parenting you was, by comparison, like parenting a marshmallow. People would ask, "Is he always this content?" And we'd sigh and gaze lovingly at our brown-eyed boy and beam. You were always that content, and remained so until you turned two, at which point you developed the tiniest stubborn streak. Now you're three, and while we still catch glimpses of that streak at home, I am happy to report that you're still that content, compliant little boy when you're in public. People are still amazed at how laid-back and easygoing you are. I am so proud to be your mom.

And that is why I am typing this post while you're still asleep. When you're asleep, I can write away and not encounter one of those contradictions that makes it so hard for me to stay on-task. I know that soon, you will wake up and start being a typical three-year-old boy, but for now, you're just my sweet, lovable little marshmallow.

Oh--you're coming down the stairs. Good morning, child. What's it going to be? Guns blazing, or cuddly mama's boy? The fun thing is, right now? I can't wait to find out.

I love you, boy.

(But you will wash the dishes someday.)