Felix

 We have been reading old blogs at the dinner table, and there are dozens of entertaining old James stories. James was the first, you see, so we wrote about him a lot. 

There are also dozens of entertaining Owen stories, because even though Owen wasn't the firstborn child, he definitely was (and is) the very Owenest. The child demands to be quoted.

There aren't enough Felix blogs. Felix is content to do his own thing. A few days ago, for example, he taught himself how to ride a bike with training wheels. And when I say he taught himself, I mean that he went outside completely independently (we were working on school with the older two), managed to get his helmet on, and figured out how to work the pedals, which had been a source of frustration to him the day before. We learned that Felix knew how to ride a bike because someone happened to look out the window and notice that he was biking up and down the sidewalk. ("Felix, come inside! You aren't allowed to be out in the front without a grown-up.")

He is a mix of baby and big kid at four and a half years old. He still sucks his fingers, snuggles his George, and requires a daily "neck hug." But he also initiates conversations with unknown adults about which greek gods and goddesses they prefer, asks for prayers for endangered animals in church, and routinely solves his older brothers' math problems when they talk them through out loud.

His intestinal tract is in perpetual crisis. He denies that anything is ever wrong, and we fear to go out without a change of clothes still.

He barters in the complex currency of football cards, desirable LEGO pieces, helmets, and hockey pucks. He's been taken advantage of early and often by his big brothers, and this has taught him to drive a hard bargain and to make sure that an adult witnesses the transaction. I wonder if he might end up in finance. 

His head is still comically enormous for the rest of his body, although he's grown into it a good deal since his toddler phase. He pull 4T and 5T shirts over the thing without requiring grown-up help, and he routinely does. It isn't unusual to find him wearing 3-4 layers of shirts (he remembers about his football jersey or Lightning McQueen shirt, and just pulls it on over whatever he's already wearing) and 6-7 socks per foot.

He eats so slowly that sometimes he doesn't finish his breakfast until we are clearing the table to put out lunch. ("I'm going to still eat my oatmeal, just leave it out.")

He doesn't get as many stories read aloud to him as his older brothers did at his age, but he memorizes what he does hear in only two readings. ("The picadores were afraid, and the matador was scared stiff!")

He looks huge when you are with him in the house alone all day, but when you see him in a grocery cart at Wegmans you realize what a little guy he still is. His little years are coming to an end soon--he'll be in Kindergarten in the fall. He's been a treasure, especially since we've known he's our last one.

He is a good kid.