My Middle Child.

I have to work to stay present. If I don’t stay present, I don’t enjoy my children; they simply become another thing for me to deal with.

So this week I’ve noticed that Asher has started that adorable, almost-three-years-old way of talking and I CANNOT GET ENOUGH OF IT. He’ll pipe up from the backseat: “Mommy! Look, birdses!” He says “catses,” “dogses,” and things like “What’s that sound is?” The first time he said “What’s that sound is?” I think I blurted out, “Who your daddy is?” And he said, “Huh? Daddy? Daddy at work.”

Sometimes I miss having other grownups around to get my humor … like when I told him the sound he heard was crickets because nobody was laughing at what I said.

“Cwickets?”

That’s right. Cwickets. They chirp when it’s silent, so … we never hear them.

Sometimes he pats me and asks, “You alright?” if I stub my toe. He wraps his arms around my legs and says “Sowwy, I sowwy Mommy,” when he does something wrong. He says “I wuv you too,” when I put him to bed. It. Is. Adorable.

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Asher at birth.

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Asher’s first birthday.

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One year old.

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Two years old.

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Almost three.

My Asher … he rockets around like he’s been snorting kiddie speed, constantly getting bumped and scraped. He’s my toughest child, rugged with a chipped-toothed, dimpled grin that can win over even the grumpiest cashier at Walmart. I worry about him the most, for very different reasons than the other two. They are all three so special in such unique ways, I know this even though we don’t know exactly how just yet. It’s a knowing that I have, and I just hope I am up to the task of guiding them.

Sometimes it feels like an eternity since he was born, and I guess in a way it has been. So much has happened — we moved, had another child, and moved again. But when I look into his cherub-like face and force myself to be present, I realize it is zipping by faster than I’d like, and before I know it he will be saying “sorry” instead of “sowwy.”

And that kind of breaks my heart a little.

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