When I brought my first born son home from the hospital, I didn’t know what to do. I’ve taken care of babies before, but this little guy, this little angel was delicate in my eyes. My husband and I placed the car seat on the family room floor and just stared at him. During his first six months of life, I continued to treat him as a fragile china doll.  I held him a lot.  There were days I let him sleep on my chest for hours – denying myself food, drink, and bathroom just to make sure my little angel got his beauty sleep.

You would think he would grow up to be clingy and very dependent on me.  He isn’t.  Actually, out of my three children he is the most independent of me.  Maybe it is because he is the oldest at eight and a half years old, or because the younger ones are still at an age that need their mommy. I don’t know.  Most days, my other two children are fighting for my attention.  I cannot sit on the couch without my other son and daughter pushing to sit on my lap. Meanwhile, my oldest is playing with Legos, his DSi or making movies with his video camera. I usually have to tackle him and give him kisses and hugs each day.

My first born son used to wear whatever I gave him.  He would accept whatever he was given each morning.  Then suddenly one day he had a problem with the clothes I set out for him. Instead of the cute jeans and striped shirt I wanted him to wear to school, he insisted on athletic pants and sports t-shirt. He doesn’t realize how awesome he looks in jeans but will not wear them EVER.  So, when we do our school shopping I buy him several athletic pants and corresponding tops to wear.  The only time he will wear a nice shirt is on picture day. I guess there are worse things in life.

Now we are at odds over his hairstyle.  I love when he grows a longer Justin-Bieberish style, and he prefers it short. Super short.  I love the natural wave and the relaxed look of the longer style.  He wants everything off his forehead.  I realize he is an individual and deserves to be happy with his hair. Again, he doesn’t realize just how cute he is with the longer style. Doesn’t he know momma knows best? Nevertheless, we compromise by cutting it his way and letting it grow until it is my way, then we cut it again. I shouldn’t complain, at least he isn’t asking for a Mohawk.