My kids are different. From each other. I expected them to be alike and they aren't. Not even close.
Two of them argue constantly. One of them isn't big enough to challenge the first two. He will. It will happen. Some day they will all disagree on which power ranger is the baddest. It won't be long until I can here "that's mine" in three different voices.
At times when all five of us are screaming – trying to claim more square footage than we should – my boys find moments to connect. They almost crave each other at times. These fleeting glimpses of utopia are what keep me sane.
Raising boys is a circus act. Taming the lion while walking a tightrope on the back of an elephant – not to mention the protestors and the haters right outside the tent.
They are tender. Boys. It's hard to remember that sometimes. Even Power Rangers give kisses to babies.
I love this picture of big, tough Ollie. How paternal he is with his left hand keeping the baby so safely on the couch – and then with the other hand he plays with his own feet like the toddler that he technically is.
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