The Show Me Max or His Mother's Son

Max, lately, has been in an inquisitive state. More specifically, he likes to have final approval of things like recently changed diapers and whatever just blew out of his nose into the kleenex. I'm not exactly sure how this happened, but I feel like Katie is somehow involved in this particular early personality quirk. To whit: It is not me to whom Max ran proudly today, excitedly and proudly holding his finger out ahead of him. Upon the finger's tip, he carried a cargo as precious and soft as it was wee and sort of spherical.

"Look, Mommy, a booger!"

"Oh. . .Max. That's nice!"

"I did it all by myself!"

See, "please" and "thank you" are easy. You just pound those via rote repetition. Now, when your kid runs to you proudly with a booger on the tip of your finger, how exactly should you react? I mean, he did do something on his own and he did do himself.

I act like Katie is somehow to blame for Max's fascination with his phlegm. Really, if he had run up to me, I would've asked him if his taste salty like mine.

Giddy

Blasted on champagne, Katie and I could no longer contain ourselves. We cracked their doors, crept into their rooms and roused them from their crib and their big-boy bed, respectively. Miles, upon hearing the good news, said, "Bagu umo shmophf!" Max gave a sleepy, "Barack Obamaaaaa!" He then snuggled up with his bear, his other bear, his 'Mater, and today's favorite excavator and went, like his brother, back to sleep.

Tonight, though, they sleep in a country that has become, gloriously, epically and stupendously, a better place. Seriously, when the world is filled with kids that are this cute, isn't it time we have a president this dope?