You know in the movies when a parent is talking to their grown child and they have a flashback of when they were little? Like in Father of the Bride when George Banks listens as Annie tells him she is getting married. I have been having those visions a lot lately of my three year old, Wee. He is three and a half and every day that goes by he loses a part of his baby qualities. As he sits in his brother’s chair trying to eat his lunch, the soup dribbles down his chin because he is too far away from the table. My mind races forward to when he is a young man sitting in the same seat talking to me about girls and sports wolfing down his dinner before practice.

I know time will escape me like that.

I try so hard to remember the every day.

In the past six months Wee’s language has exploded. He has been home almost two years, and it has been such a joy to hear him speak what we knew to be very dramatic and funny thoughts. As a new phrase or word comes into play I can’t help but smile. We are finally putting a voice to his rambunctious behavior and I love it!

He is a tiny guy, just fitting into his big brother’s 2T pants and shirts. When I tell people this, they are surprised. He doesn’t seem small because he has such a big personality. When Wee is in the room, people’s gaze gravitates toward him. He is funny and cute and bursting with energy.

He is our actor. He knows what to say and when to say it. And he isn’t afraid of anything.

Even stitches.

I recently made my first trip to the Emergency Room where Wee received three dissolvable stitches near his eye. He charmed everyone there as he usually does, gaping wound and all. I told the nurse as we left that I would probably be seeing her again. She chuckled. I sighed.

His is an intolerable age at times. Three is all-knowing, want to do it myself, opinionated, testing the limits. But three is also still a baby in many ways, needing help with everything. Wee makes me so mad, but I take deep breathes and let it pass because I know that in the next five minutes I will be giggling and squeezing him in a big hug as he tries to get away. And when he falls or gets hurt and runs to me crying, I pull him on my lap and hug him tight. Don’t cry, my baby boy.

He is so lovable.

I love his sticky hands, sweet smell, and completely silly antics. I love it when he comes down the stairs in his pajamas wearing his cape and sunglasses while carrying his lunchbox. He often has food in his hair from the previous meal. I try to keep up with him but often cannot. I feel that this will be our relationship forever. He will always make me laugh after swearing I will ground him for life. His middle child status in our familial chain couldn’t be more suitable for Wee. He will always stand out roaring for attention. He’s our perfect match.

I asked him the other day who his best friend is and he said, Min. It is times like these when my heart leaps out of my chest. Just like when Wee says hi to his sister every morning and she giggles and laughs. The love emanates between them; it is the most beautiful sight. I love watching their faces as they play and hug each other and communicate the way young children do.

“Mom, I love my sister.” My eyes well up.

I am so lucky.

While writing this he crawled onto my bed and asked if he can help me. True to form he is toting his fake ipad, a set of keys and play money that he continuously tries to “flip.” I cannot get anything done with him around, but I have learned there is nothing more important than talking to him and listening to his ramblings about blowing his nose like daddy and where he hid some of his latest treasures. I am forever waiting for the punch line.

When you raise adopted children, there is a sense of wonder about who they are and where they get their characteristics. I look into Wee’s chocolaty brown eyes and wonder who I am seeing. They are faceless people but so real and so present in my child. Now that I have experienced pregnancy and child birth, my heart aches more profoundly when thinking about my boys birth mothers. I feel closer to them because I can see more clearly now how completely selfless they were to give them up for adoption. I am raising these boys because they could not, and I feel that weight. I am more than ready for that responsibility.

If we meet someday, she will understand my gratitude to her. I can only hope she thinks I did a good enough job.