My weakness

There are many things I have weaknesses for ... a deadly dessert, yet another "to die for" girl's dress or a slick kitchen gadget (I'm in love with my vegetable peeler which actually makes peeling potatoes tolerable).

To compensate for these weaknesses, I've learned to bake only when absolutely necessary (read: last week's brownies are gone), to avoid www.janieandjack.com and peruse Jungle Jim's Gourmet Galeria on a restricted basis. The weakness I've not yet found an effective method of circumvention to is Trace.

His face, his laugh, his snuggles. His hold on me. It's a weakness that I'm not sure I want to skirt.

In reality my Trace weakness is actually a source of unfairness between him and the girls. Things they'd surely find themselves in trouble for, he manages to pull off without much consequence because of a naughty smile or stormy stomp off that most of the time I find endearing. His innate cuteness and what a sucker I am for it manages to "save" him frequently.

I'm totally aware of this bias, yet my weakness remains.

I'm also a sucker for his tears. The cause isn't really a factor, but he gets a few flowing and regardless of what I'm doing, he's scooped up and coddled, legs falling over mine as I sit and hold him. Yes, it can all wait - my hunka-hunka is crying.

He's made me a push-over. Pushing more of me over than any of the girls ever have. His proud chest-puffed-out peacock walk when he's done something good; his bright little boy eyes when he's happy; his tilted head when he's being silly. I melt.

While he maddens me quicker than any of the others with his frequent disobedience or inability to listen to reason, my heart can't help but soften after he falls out of the back of his Tonka dump truck for the seventh time of the day. And while my brain tells me he should have learned not to stand in it around the third attempt and fall; my mommy heart still makes me baby him because, maybe, he didn't realize how close to the table he had pulled the truck, thus resulting in the head injury (again!).

Jason shakes his head, the girls go on about their less dangerous play and I wipe his tears, kiss his head and squeeze him one more time. Rotten-rotten, stormy or whatever nickname I might be using for him that day ... he's still my baby boy ... my weakness.