Spilt Milk.

It's a bazillion below zero here today. You think I'm exaggerating, I'm not.

H had a little playdate this morning. Two little friends came over to play and they ran and they dumped and they jumped and just did boy things for two hours.

E and I tried to steer clear of this crazy.

{I was more successful than she was. She seems drawn to crazy.}

After our friends left, I lost my cool at lunch when H "accidentally" spilt his milk for the fifth time this week.

My four {and a half} year old is a smart one, my friends, because when he decides he is finished with lunch {or dinner, breakfast, snack...} and I ask him to finish his milk, his milk just "accidentally" spills.

As I cleaned up milk on the floor and table for the fifth time this week I was fuming and thinking about how I never would have done something like this. Especially not five times over. And then I was fuming at myself because it's just spilt milk, why am I this upset?

Meanwhile H sat on timeout complaining that we always make him drink milk.

*****
Do you watch Parenthood?

It's currently one of my favorite parts of the week. I love each of the characters, the parenting situations they face are real and I just relate on so many levels with it.

{Like the removal of the daughter's bedroom door this last week on Tuesday. Anyone else think that was a genius lesson?}

Earlier this week I got caught up on the shows J and I missed on vacation and there's this conversation/scene that takes place between a mom and daughter:

"When you have kids there's something you should know. Very confusing thing they don't tell you. You see so much of yourself in them. You see your ironic take on the world, you see your smile, your walk, your sense of humor, whatever and you think they're you. But they're not you."

The character {played by Lauren Graham} goes on to explain to her daughter that they have their own baggage and insecurities and issues...

Sometimes I see so much of myself in my kids. It's not uncommon for me to say, "I remember doing that as a kid..." or "I never would have done that as a kid..." as though they are me.

But they're not me.

I can read H like a book. H is his own person, full of mischief and crazy ambition. He's shy when I least expect him to be and sometimes he is just plain challenging. A lot of people say he looks a lot like J and T, but I still see parts of myself in his coloring and his lanky body. I see myself in him when he sits writing letters to my grandma or tells me crazy, long creative stories.

He's a complete boy, loves running and jumping and reading his library books. He melts quickly if he's overtired and yet, is pretty much the most joyful person I've ever known. He does things five times over and steps over the line in the sand that I thought was made in permanent marker.

He's not me. {Even when I see certain looks or mannerisms or behaviors like me.}

He's him.

*****

I think it's good I'm figuring these things out now.