Mmmmmm... cupcakes!

My brother, Davis, has never met a food he hasn't liked. For him, it's not eating... it's a full contact sport. What a little piggy. I'm much more delicate when eating a cupcake...

11 Months

Little Brother is 11 months old today. Time flies...

Three

Someone once said that whoever coined the phrase "Terrible Twos" never had a three-year old. As of yesterday, I made my official entrance into the "Trying Threes."

try⋅ing

–adjective: extremely annoying, difficult, or the like; straining one's patience and goodwill to the limit: a trying day; a trying experience.

Enough said.

My post-birthday celebration has involved a series of nuclear-style meltdowns, including screaming, kicking, biting, and foaming at the mouth. I am serious about the foam.

In spite of the massive temper tantrums, I've had a wonderful three years. How does one describe my three-year existence? Outdoor enthusiast. Stand-up comedian. Master orator. Candy connoisseur. Imagination Mover. Book worm. Big brother. Independent thinker. Amateur fire fighter. Truck savant. Unrivaled debater. Certified goofball. Cat nemesis. Charming friend.

Apple of mama's eye? Most definitely.

Happy Birthday Me!

Love,

Weston

Au contraire

At what age does one begin knowing more than one's parents? From my own experience, I think it happens around 34 months. Yes, it finally happened. I have acquired more knowledge in my nearly three-year existence than my parents' combined 71 years. Master's degrees be darned... I know everything.

This realization of my sponge-like ability to absorb knowledge is exhilarating. I wake every morning with renewed zeal to contradict what my parents say. For instance:

Mama- "You need to go potty."
Me- "No, I not need to go potty." (all the while squirming and crossing my legs)

Mama- "Those are the fire truck's lights."
Me- "Those are the sirens."
Mama- "No, those are the lights."
Me- "NO THEY NOT. Those are the sirens."

And, of course mama's personal favorite dialogue of late:

Mama- "That's the red truck."
Me- "No, it's a tow truck."
Mama- "No, it's a red truck."
Me- "No, it's a tow truck."
Mama (turning page to discover it is indeed a tow truck which happens to be red)- "Oh, it's a tow truck."

Shampoo. Rinse. Repeat.

I'm sure it is a logical fallacy to defend your argument regardless of it's accuracy. Who cares! It sure is fun to watch mama steam as she tries to contain her anger over my irritating persistence. When they got married, daddy told mama that she was always right and that he was never wrong. They never considered the unstable THIRD variable of an obstinate, strong-willed child... ME! Regardless of what mama and daddy think, I am always right... never wrong... my ideas, conclusions, and interests trump those of said parental authority!

All I can say is that, mama, you were warned long ago that payback is H3LL!

Love,

Weston

Oh Cr@p!

It was weigh-in day at the Holm house (except for Mama, but that's a given. Mama insists that some things are better left unsaid). I stepped on the scale first only to find out that I am 27 pounds soaking wet. Did I happen to mention that I will be three in September? (I don't think I've mentioned that yet. I'm into all sorts of emergency vehicles, power tools, musical instruments, and books... but I digress.) Mama thinks I'm like a colt-- long and lanky.

Next comes Davis-- and that is the reason for my title. He's not even 9 months and he scares me. Drum roll please...

...

...

...

The kid weighs 18 pounds. Did I mention that I only weigh 27 pounds? For those of you who flunked math, that is a 9 pound difference. Mama always said that I'd be in the band and now my brother is going to be a linebacker. This is not fair. Now I really have to be nice to him because from what I understand, hell hath no fury like a little brother scorned. Perhaps I shall learn to outdo him with rapier wit, devilish charm, and stunning good looks. On second thought, maybe I'll just run and hide any time I hear him thundering through the house.

Seriously, what good is it being the big brother when your little brother can bench press you with his pinky finger?

*sigh*

Much love,

Weston

The Competition is on the Move...

It is with sincere sadness (and yes, a little jealousy) that I report that my sole source of competition is now on the move. That other kid who lives in my house and has the audacity to share my bedroom (the parents call him Davis... I refuse to acknowledge his existence) is crawling. He's not very good at it at all, but he's on the move nonetheless. Mama and daddy seem excited, but I'm devastated. Once upon a time all of my beloved toys were safely kept out of reach of his sticky little hands. But now, he takes my toys and I'm expected to share... the horror! "Share" is just not a part of my vocabulary (but apparently "anemone" is... I managed to impress the parents with that one yesterday).

Why do babies have to grow so fast? I miss the days when Davis would just lie around and dare not infringe upon my territory. At least he's not talking yet. Mama might have to institutionalize herself if Davis is as verbose as I am.

Much love,

Weston

Holden Beach

A good time was had by all... 'nuff said. (Except for the fact that I'm still working on my sand collection. I have sand WHERE???)

Love,

Weston