Two thousand, eighty-one. That's the number Jackson uses when he's trying to say "a lot." Its not the biggest number he knows (he's all about "ten-thousand-million"), but I think its the biggest one he can wrap his mind around.
At any rate, I have had very little time in front of my computer, but I have written 2,081 posts in my head. None of them have yet made it to the computer. Except, of course this one.
Way back on February 25th, Jackson turned four. He is my blankie-thumb-sucker kid whose front teeth show the evidence of the otherwise adorable habit. About 6 months ago I started prepping him that when he turned four, we would cut his blankie into tiny little "handkerchief pieces" (have you read the book "Owen?"). We talked about it often enough, and I was not worried about it until the day of his birthday. Suddenly I thought, "WHAT ON EARTH WAS I THINKING?? WHAT'S SO BAD ABOUT A KID AND HIS BLANKIE?" The answer, of course, is nothing. There is nothing wrong with a childish love affair with a ratty, thread-bare blue blankie with large gaping holes in three of the four corners.
But we had talked about it for months, and whenever people asked him about his upcoming birthday he associated it with the blankie demolition. So I had to go through with it. And honestly, I think it was harder for me than it was for him. I let him keep one tiny 3 inch square, which he promptly lost, and prepared myself for the worst that night. But it was uneventful. He complained a couple of times, and asked about it for two nights in a row. But if you know much about my passionate middle child, you know that things should have gone worse. Much, much worse.
But earlier this week, my big boy said in his most cheerful voice, "Mommy, remember when I turned four and you cut up my blankie? I like being four so I can not have a blankie!"
What a victory.