Last night, I had dinner with a friend and her three young children. We ate tacos amidst a chorus of “Mom! Mom! Mom! I want milk! Mom! Lookit me! Mom! Mom!”
And a member of the chorus was a 4-year-old who is, by all accounts, the future Mr. Cha Cha. He’s an accountant trapped in a little boy’s body, a very serious kid who just makes my heart melt.
Last night, he did not disappoint.
Future Mr. Cha Cha looked up from his tacos and said thoughtfully, “I love boogers.”
The rest of his family sort of ignored his comment while I laughed, picturing future blog posts.
Later, while building a pelocopter (not a helicopter – geez, get it right), my future husband got that same calm, thoughtful look. Only this time, he proclaimed, “I love tacos.”
I called him out.
“Now, wait a minute,” I said. “A little while ago, you said you love boogers. Now you say you love tacos. Which one do you love the most?”
My future mate smiled without a trace of embarrassment or worry.
“I love boogers.”
His older sister and his mother, my dear friend, both nodded.
“Well, it’s true,” said the most patient and accepting mother in the universe. “We think it’s gross, but he does love boogers.”
My future husband smiled contentedly and went back to building his pelocopter.
People spend years and years and years in therapy, hoping to get a taste of that kind of self-awareness and acceptance.
Now do you see why I fell in love just a bit more?