My children are magic.
I don’t know how Bug does it. Normally, when someone karate chops me in the throat, he or she is automatically on my Black List, and I generally don’t find it very funny. Au contraire with Bug. He’s magic, I tell you.
He loves kung fu (I’m sure I just made every martial artist’s eye twitch with my casual interchanging of “karate” and “kung fu”). He eats cheese by the pound. He will do push-ups for fun. He is only still when he is asleep. He willingly chooses to read books about history. He prefers sushi over pizza. He has an enormous soft spot for his baby sister. One day very soon, he might actually bruise Hubs during one of their wrestling matches. He is uncompromisingly honest, even when reminding me that I “still have work to do” in losing the baby weight. He is witty. He is sharp. He is full of charm and magic.
Bean is toothless and drools and is perfectly content with food all over her face. She is the most beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes on. She’s magic, I tell you.
She loves dogs and tries to call them, but all she knows how to say is, “Ah!” She loves the taste of my hair. She dances. She tries to imitate others’ facial expressions, and the result is heart-breakingly adorable. She laughs like a lady. She thinks her big brother is the funniest human on the planet. She smells like lavender and fresh milk and pixie dust. When she feels or hears or sees something amazing, like carpet fuzz, or the tinkling of a rattle, or the blinking light of the television remote, she wants you to feel or hear or see it, too. She is magnetic. She is irresistible. She is full of beauty and magic.
My children are magic, and I’m pretty sure that I had nothing to do with that.