I am the mother of a little boy.
He breaks my furniture, hates my cooking, loves Rabbids Invasion, and drives his big sister crazy.
He amazes me with how tough he is. He melts my heart with how sensitive he is.
He is charming (when he wants to be) and he is discovering a passion for math. He loves music, and wants to be in a band. He scares the hell out of our dog. He intrigues our cat.
He broke into my art supplies and covered the upstairs in black acrylic paint. He gave my toothbrush a bath. In the toilet. He doesn't so much walk as leap, and anything that can be used as a sword, will be.
He is a lot like his dad, but even more like me. So much like me that I worry about him. If you know me, you know what I mean by that.
He considers everyone he meets a friend. To him, the world is a magical place, filled with adventures to be had.
He is four years old, and he is very much his own person. He is my beautiful boy, and in the blink of an eye, he will be a man.
And to those of you who would fault him for his biology; who would replace his boyish ways with "socially acceptable" feminine virtues, who would squelch his passion and energy, and indoctrinate him into the cult of 'all men suck, white men especially," I say, watch out. Because you will have to get through me first.
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