A Spaghetti Sauce Stain In The Shape Of Me

As I write this, Hubs is sitting on the living room floor surrounded by birthday cards, bills and credit card statements. He is organizing. Painstakingly, thoroughly organizing.

No wonder then, that we it is time to pick up the toys, Bailey insists that all the blue blocks have to be separated from the yellow blocks that are separated from the green blocks. He remembers that the monkey that squawks when you push it's tummy goes in the same box with the rattle that Sophie likes so much.

And, he is not afraid to tell you if you put something in the wrong place, no siree Bob.

That's another way he is like his Daddy. A straight talker. He's gonna tell you like it is, shoot straight from his hip, lay it all on the line.

I could go for weeks without finding that little something that says he is also part of me. I found it tonight at Denny's. His shirt covered with spaghetti sauce and his hands greasy from french fries, he fussed when Hubs tried to wipe his face.

"It's ok, Daddy," he said, "Mommy likes dirty and I do, too!"