My baby is 5 now. 5. FIVE. I get that he isn't a baby anymore, but 5 is no longer a toddler, no longer even a preschooler. He's 5 and will be starting Kindergarten in the fall (and soccer, too, if he still wants to). He's smart and sweet and so polite (it kills me a little when he says "Yes, ma'am" to me). Don't get me wrong, he's certainly got his mean moments and the occasional attitude, but over all, J is just about the sweetest little boy I've ever met. He sings songs to his sister (mostly "Rock a bye baby" which I think is probably a sweet way to threaten to put your baby in a tree if they don't stop crying). He makes crafts and things all the time. The other day he just made a dinosaur sculpture out of cardboard, told me it was a new duckbill that lives underground (so didn't go extinct), and named it "Dinoduckduck Di" for it's species name. He writes songs about superheroes and P-funk. I love him so much I can't breathe when I think about it.
As J and Dee both get older, the