I am trying to hold on to all of the scraps of conversation that appear like shiny pennies in my path as I rush through life.  Every time Spence opens his mouth, I want to furiously jot down every word in a notebook.  Perhaps I should get a tape recorder and lurk to steal away every word.  This is a beautiful age.  Just like every number before and I suppose every number from here forward.

He's a full hand today.

Usually, he wakes us up by cock-a-doodle dooing.  He didn't this morning, but I hope I can always hear that in my mind as he grows older and forgets to do this.  He bopped into bed between Dave and I this morning and he listened to us warble (me: warble, Dave:  sing) Happy Birthday.  When discussing the prospect of presents, he turned to us and said, "I just want you guys." 

How do I not swirl up and lose myself in those words?  Could there be anything finer?  Doubtful.

When presented with a birthday pancake with a candle, he looked up full of love and said, "Thank you, mama.  Thank you!"  The words...fairly run of the mill words.  But, ah!  The tone.  If I was still a 4th grade girl, I would be able to decorate the words with bubbly cursive and hearts at the bottom of the exclamation point to communicate the tone.

At lunch, he ordered grilled chicken and a salad.  "Now that I am five, I think I will like salad now."  He proceeded to chomp on lettuce and the light green part of cucumbers.  "Maybe I will drink coffee now too," he said barely able to contain the giggles.

We wandered into Sweets on Marshall.   Mindful of the allure of sugar, I reminded him to use your eyes, but do not touch anything.  A few steps in he turns and looks at me a wee bit mournfully.  "We have a problem, Mom.  I can't seem to stop touching the floor." 


Happy Birthday, Spencer.