Messy Minded Momma

 • “You have a fat belly, Mom.”

• “I like your beautiful clothes.”

• “Mom, I took a poo. Come wipe my butt?”

• “Who’s faster, me or you?” (proceeds to sprint past me on the stairs) “You’re a slow poke, Mom. I’m a fast poke!”

• “I want Daddy to be a black ninja for Easter. Shhh. Don’t tell him.”

• “You’re so rude, Mom!”

• “Look at my nuts!”

• “Why didn’t you pick me up from school earlier?”

• “You made me cry because you asked me to wash my hands.”

• “Why are you taking so long in the bathroom? Just squeeze your poo out like a raccoon. That’s what I do.”

• “I promise I won’t ask for a snack before dinner… but can I have pretzels?”

• “Guess what? Chicken butt.” (walks past me and farts)

• “At recess I played ‘gimme my money’ and fell in puddles.”

• Sings: “See my balls, see my balls, see my balls.”

• “I’m a sleepy boy, Mom.”

• Talking to his Hot Wheels cars in the bath: “That’s not real-life speed!”

• “Me and Dad need a shrinking ray so we can fit in these Hot Wheels windows and drive up mountains and fences. You can’t come. You have to stay and watch with the dog.”

• While brushing his teeth: “I smell yolk!”

• “Can I wear my house coat to bed like Kevin in Home Alone?”

• “When I was sleeping, Daddy and Lady were singing, and Lady was using my drumsticks.” (Lady is our 10lb Morkie.)

• When the lights go out and I say I can’t see: “Boys have night vision. Girls don’t.”

This is all layered between a steady stream of “Watch this!”, “Can I have a snack?”, and “Can I watch TV?”

This is the world of my four-year-old.

Where speed is a personality trait. Where pretzels are a negotiation strategy. Where raccoon bathroom techniques are legitimate life advice. Where Hot Wheels have real life speed limits and shrinking rays are practical engineering solutions. Where night vision is gender specific.

His world is immediate. Loud. Dramatic. Honest. Unfiltered. He feels everything at full volume. His problems are big and his victories are bigger. His logic is airtight. What matters to him is simple: snacks, speed, play. There is no self-consciousness yet. No overthinking. No rehearsing conversations in his head. No worrying about how something will land. Just blurting, running, narrating, imagining.

And one day, this will be gone.

The farts will become private. The “watch this!” will turn into closed bedroom doors. The wild bedtime questions will fade. The drumsticks will stay in the drawer. There will be fewer raccoon analogies and more headphones. Fewer sticky kisses. More independence.

And while I know that growth is good and necessary and beautiful, I also know I will miss this version of him. The one who wants me to watch everything. The one who still needs me to wipe his tears and occasionally his butt.

I love his world. The imagination. The confidence. The audacity. The chaos. And yes, it appears boys have been fascinated with their privates since the dawn of time.

For now, I am lucky enough to live in it with him. And I am trying, as much as I can, to stay present in the noise before it quiets.