My third born, my Bubbie Boy, is the child I shake my head over. The one who causes me to do deep breathing. The one who makes me wonder on a regular basis if we are going to be taking a trip to the emergency room. I often say that his older sister and brother did absolutely nothing to prepare us for him. They are responsible, mature. Bubbie? Not so much.
A sign hangs in his room that reads, "Meandering to the beat of a different drummer." He is very unlike the rest of us who are living this life with him. Yet he is passionate. He feels things deeply. He fiercely defends those whom he loves. He sings at the top of his lungs. He wakes in the morning asking if anyone wants to play a board game.
To be truthfully honest, he Absolutely. Wears. Me. Out. For me to try to accomplish anything is a chore because he almost always requires my attention.
So, why is it, that tonight, while he is having a sleep-over at a friend's house, do I keep looking at his room and sighing? It feels like part of my heart is missing. Don't get me wrong. I am glad he is enjoying his friends and I am not trying to keep him my little boy, but I just feel better when he is here.
I know I should be striving to accomplish some of those many, many things I am always saying that I am unable to because of his activity level; but, honestly, I will be glad when he is back home under our roof.
I so love that little boy.