Updated: Sep 15, 2018
Today is my baby's birthday. He's 12.
I know, I know, if he's 12 then that makes Jess.... you know what, that's not what this is about. (But seriously though, if you look at that photo, you'll probably guess I'm barely 30. Look at me. I was a toddler! A toddler with a toddler and a baby?! Who let me have those kids on a day-to-day basis?? What did I know? Did I even know how to go to the store and buy milk at that age?!) Okay. Let's focus here. My wrinkle free face is making me get off track.
So, my youngest.
He's a turd.
I say that with love. He is the quintessential little brother. If his older brothers are doing it - he wants to be doing it. If they do not pay attention to him doing this, he will do it louder, better, quicker or usually - closer to someone's face to make sure someone (preferably them) sees him doing this thing as well.
He's by far my most competitive child. This is slightly disturbing to his Dad and I. Because everything (literally e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g) turns into a competition.
Throwing. Running. Rollerblading. Biking. Long snapping. Eating. Talking. Burping. Farting. Breathing (or not breathing - do you know how horrid it feels as a mother to watch your children have 'see who can hold your breath the longest' competitions?!)
Sometimes a little healthy competition is okay.
Others (read: farting, breath holding) - not so much.
His big brothers - they adore him. They wouldn't so much admit this. To anyone. Or out loud, even to themselves. But they do.
How can you not adore the person who is your biggest champion? Your fan in everything you take on? The FIRST person to tell you good game after the clock runs out?
That's Emmett. The biggest pain-in-the-rear-best-supporter-ever.
Somebody make a mug for that. I think I just thought of his gift for next year...