Ok, I’ll admit it. I look up to my four-year old son. Not during the moments of complete tantrum, or when he’s on a mean streak and furrowing his brow as if to say a big giant “I hate you!” (thankfully, of which, he hasn’t learned yet how to say). But for the most part, he is a happy guy. And not only just happy about things he has or does. Just happy being HIMSELF. He hasn’t developed an insecurity to new things, new people or new situations. He hasn’t learned that not everyone will like him or want to talk to him, or even how to take all of that personally. He hasn’t figured out how to censor himself yet, whether it’s blowing up at the first moment of frustration or anger, or in his non-stop singing and humming. He is completely and utterly at home with himself wherever he is, and he’s not afraid to just be. I love that about him. And so wish that I could find that in myself. How I hope that it takes a long, long time for the world to show him its bitter and hurtful side, so that he can maintain this awesomeness for a while. I need him to keep this up for a while, so I can see exactly just how he does it.