Liam turned 3 a few weeks ago. A summer baby; born on the eve of the solstice. At three he is still a sweet, sweet little boy -- not a baby, he'll tell me, as if I could forget. But also trying to figure out people and what works and what doesn't. He likes his candy-flavored vitamins (what a mistake) and will tell me "I need an extra vitamin; I'm having a rough day" or "I need vitamin to help me." And the fit he has when I explain for the 147th time that vitamins are medicine and he can only have one a day, well, it's something to see. But he rallies and will then try: "Okay Mommy, how about chocolate cookie." Sweet boy; sweet tooth.
The baby boy at three also says, for reasons I do not know: "I love you; I love your hair." He says this most often to Will: I love you Daddy; I love your hair. He repeats things he hears; puts them together in new ways.
He wants to swing high and higher on the swings and will say "I want to remember that this is an airplane." He wants to be friends with Mollie the dog; he wants her to play with him. He starts swimming lessons next week and is beyond excited, although today before bed he said to me "GoGo will stay with me at swimming, right Mommy?" (A: yes, he will be with you the whole time.)
He has decided that he wants to be rocked to sleep again. When he asks for something he thinks I'll say no to he whispers. So when I say: how do you want to go to sleep tonight Liam? He whispers "rock, rock." I don't mind. He's figured out a way to tuck his little head up beside my arm so I can feel it pressing against my lower ribs just where it sat pressing for the whole last trimester of our pregnancy. He snuggles in and sighs and goes straight to sleep.