Thursday, April 5, 2012

My child loves balls.

And I really, really hate that word. 

But he loves it, and them.  First thing when he wakes up in the morning now, he asks for his ball and not his milk ("ma", meaning milk comes not too long after, though). 

Aunt Becky gave him a 3-pack of Nerf balls for Christmas, and he is  obsessed with them.  His current favorite is the blue and white soccer ball (after I took away the football because he learned he could bite the ends off during the Palm Sunday sermon). 

If only he would learn to crawl so I wouldn't have to go get his ball every time it rolls away from him.  I know, I *know* that I shouldn't get it for him.  After 10 minutes of him lying face-down, spread-eagle pointing at his ball criying, "Ball!  Baaaaall!"  you'd get it for him, too.

1 comment:

  1. I wouldn't break, I think! Try me... Actually he probably would just sit still and not do anything in my "hipster" presence. -Harnatron