Being a mother rocks.
And, okay, maybe I'm a little biased, but being a mother to a little boy really rocks (even though I would love a little Claire or Isla or Norah or Ruby running around at my feet, too). Max is only eighteen months old and he already picks up anything with a straight edge (sticks, drumsticks, the cardboard part of the paper towels, my planner) and rams it into the thing closest to him. Which means that yes, my little son is a pirate. All we need is an eye patch.
BUT. Sword fights with inanimate objects aren't the only reason mothering a little boy rocks. Nor is listening to a little voice sing "The Wheels on The Bus". Nor is the way he dances whenever eighties rock comes on the radio. Nor is watching a little hand try to hold up one or two or three or four fingers while saying "ive". It's all of these reasons and a million others besides. But. The truth is that, one of the reasons being a mother rocks is that, when it's time for a bathroom break at the library (sans a stroller), this is what happens:
Yes. That is Maxwell walking around a stall with a doodle pad, singing to himself and laughing.
(I was laughing, too. Actually, I am still laughing.)
Also, this has been our biggest battle this week. Max gets busted for this at least twice a day:
Love him and his mischievous ways.