October 13, 2009 (age 2)
Sam and I were in the store walking by the aisle of trashy romance novels when suddenly he pointed to a book and shouted, “Mommy!” I looked over all of the provocative cover shots of scantily clad ladies arrayed in a half-swoon.
“Which one is Mommy?” I asked.
“Mommy!” He pointed again.
“This one?” I pointed to the one that I thought looked most like me, she had dark hair at least.
“No! Mommy there!” He pointed further down the shelf.
“This one?”
“No.”
“This one?”
“No.”
“This one?”
“No.” The pointing grew more exaggerated. “There!!”
“This one?” I pointed to the last book on the shelf.
“Yes! Mommy!” He grinned, stoked that I had finally figured it out.
“That one, huh?” I peered at the strapping young man that adorned the cover, his smoldering gaze partially obscured by a rakish tangle of midnight hair; his square, stubbled jaw set in a way that implied an iron will and a roguish heart that could only be tamed by true love. “Really?”
“Yes, Mommy.”
I laughed so hard I nearly died.
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