Yesterday, my littlest boy turned three years old. I keep flipping between thinking it’s crazy that he’s so old already and trying to remember what our life was like before him (and, mostly, failing). He’s been a force to be reckoned with since his birth day and has always done things on his own terms. He is most definitely our dramatic child (for now, at least; this one inside me seems like she may give him a battle on that!), but he is spunky, goofy and hilarious. He loves to sing and requests songs constantly. Luckily, his brother likes to oblige him on this some to give my (not great) singing lungs a break. Trains are his favorite, and he has a strong preference for the color yellow. His big brother is his absolute favorite person ever, followed closely by his daddy. I may fit in third, but that will change soon as he is SO excited about having a little sister. He squeals with delight whenever he sees a baby girl and tells them/their mommies that he’ll have one of his very own soon. It’ll be sweet to see his affectionate side really come out to play when there’s a new baby in the house. He’s super energetic, as is the Hammond way, and is constantly on the move. Intelligence isn’t lacking in him, either; he knows the alphabet, can count to 20, and is even putting the correct sounds for letters together. He’ll tell anyone who asks that he loves “school” since he always sits and tries to participate in whatever J is doing, but his favorite activities involve meeting friends to run and play.
Only one other person can drive me as crazy as G can, but I absolutely adore my little bug. Every year, we cuddle up and take a picture together at the exact time he was born (4:20pm is what we decided upon that day) in the exact location in which he was born. I love sitting there and reminiscing about his birth story and remarking how much he’s grown. Here’s to a great year three!