My dear boy,
You love oatmeal. Really. When I bought a case of it for our food storage, you snuck two containers up to your room. I later found them tucked into your bed--on the pillow, with the blanket up around them.
You are continually trying to convince me that oatmeal is the healthiest food in the world. Healthier than carrots, strawberries, peas, and cucumbers.
At breakfast yesterday you sighed and said, "I am the luckiest boy ever, because yesterday I got oatmeal."
You told me that you can run as fast as a horse. I showed you the Kentucky Derby on youtube. You were amazed. "Did this really happen in our world, Mom?" We watched it twice.
You are a sweetheart. You are thankful and gentle and tenderhearted.
You are good. I've watched and listened as you play with your friends, and I'm so proud when I hear you helping them remember to make good choices, and not doing things that "aren't appropriate." You like to be the leader, and I hope you always lead your friends to doing what's right.
Picking out your own clothes every morning is a recent thing, (you still call a single item of clothing a "clowe" like "clothes" but singular) and often you'll decide you want to wear two shirts at once.
The more orange you can wear, the better. If we see anything bright orange in the little boys section of a store, that's it. You must have it. Your eyes light up and the look on your face is so happy, so excited, I just can't resist. And so, neon orange is quickly taking over your wardrobe.
You learned to read in preschool last year. Your books from school are about Tig and Ed and Doll and Flit. I think you enjoy reading, but boy are you wiggly. We start out fine, with you seated next to me on the couch, but as we go, you twist around-head on the floor, legs on the wall, head on my knees, attempting to read with your eyes closed, laying straight, curled in a ball; you go everywhere. Reading this way takes a long, long time.
You are giving a little talk in Primary this week. It's about temples. You helped me write it for you, telling me that you wanted to say things like "I love to see the temple. The temple is a place where we learn to be good and nice. Once I got to go inside a temple before it was dedicated. It was so beautiful. I am so excited to go back inside when I'm twelve years old."
Nicholas, to hear your desire to go to the temple fills my mama heart with joy. Please, please keep this desire as you grow.
You love to play. Especially if it involves some sort of battle. Your cars start out racing, but eventually you are mixing them around in a loud, clashing heap on the floor to see which car will "win." You want to wrestle with me, but I'm not very good at it, so you've learned to ask me if we can "have a soft fight" with our hands and tickling. I like these much better.
When I practice the piano, you and Ellie like to play freeze dance, wiggling and spinning until the music stops, then you try to freeze and fall over laughing.
You love your sister. You have your disagreements and problems at times, but for siblings, I think you get along exceptionally well. The two of you have grand adventures, hours of playing, imagining, racing, and just being silly. There's nothing I love more than to hear you two playing and laughing together. Unless it's that unmistakable laugh-right-before-someone-gets-hurt.
You are growing and getting braver and happier each day. Our friends got a big puppy, and for the first few weeks you were terrified of her. She's jumpy and excited and big. But all on your own one morning, you walked over to their yard while we were getting ready to go on a walk, and you approached Timber so bravely to pet her. I was shocked, and so happy.
When my friends come over, I find myself sitting back while you do all the talking. You are incredibly social with adults.
We went to a neighborhood street party last week, and instead of sitting by me and our friends, you found two other moms under the shade tent and you placed yourself right between them and you talked and talked and talked. At one point I asked you to come back and sit by me and you said, "Maybe next time, Mom. Right now I'm being friends with those nice girls over there."
You are silly. Sometimes I hear the things you say and just wonder what is going on in your little head. Like at lunch the other day when you looked up out of the blue and said, "Mom, did you know that cows' heads are always empty?"
No, I did not know that. What could have possibly led to that train of thought? Also, what would I do without you, Nicholas?