My little dude

If I were bleeding to death in our kitchen, Trace would be the only one of our children that would come to my rescue. The girls would simply go on about their business, and only wonder what was up when I didn't respond to one of their requests.

That's the difference between sons and daughters. At least one of them.

Granted, with this I have to over look the footballs thrown through the living room knocking down pictures and whatever else might have been in the way; and the sticks, dirt and rocks that don't stay outdoors.

But, at the end of the day, there are three children accepting goodnight kisses and one giving them.

And while he's the sweetest little guy going, he's also the biggest whiner I know. The following scenario plays out about 2,674 times a day:

Trace: "Mommy?"

Me: "Yes, Trace."

*Crickets*

*More crickets*

Nothing.

There is the rare occasion when his "Mommy?" is followed up with some statement or question, but typically, just silence. I suppose he's just checking to make sure I'm still around.

And I am ... he gives hugs at bedtime too.