It’s possible I dropped fertiliser in the kids’ food over the past year. They have sprouted both from waist to chest height and from G-rated movies to M.
Once, these small Bonds-suited brats used to gurgle on Farex and colic. Now they are chewing on chilli stir fries watching Battleship.
I’ve always thought of the mini men as literally as I called them, mini men. But the other night after they left, I found some video footage of Chicky’s second birthday, where he repeatedly informed all around him that he had a “Thomis Cake Daddy!”
I was reminded how little he was and how much he has grown into the lanky-legged kid sitting on my couch watching Family Guy.
It’s hard to measure how they grow when you’re with them regularly. It makes sense now that when I used to roll the soccer ball over to them a few years back, they would drool on it and roll over it. They just weren’t ready. Then last week, Beau won player of the week in his local soccer match.
Another reminder of the increasing distance from infancy was from Beau the other night walking home from the park.
“I can’t wait to be nine, then I don’t need to hold your hand to cross the road,” he said.
I silently consoled myself about not holding his little hand.
“And I want to be seven so I don’t sit in my car seat,” Chick added.
Beau looked around me to Chick. “He’s such a baby.”
Yes, my mini men are becoming quite the old men they aspire to be. Chick grabs my coffee cups for the last sips of liquid gold and Beau is fascinated with black T-shirts and spiky hair.
Still, they’ve managed to hold on to a little G-rating.
They would hate you to know this but they have seen and love Enchanted and Dawn reported recently that they snuck into a room to watch Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles while they played with their Lego.
