My miraculous little boy

LA put together a great day for the kids Saturday despite the difficult circumstance of not knowing when the pulmonologist she desperately wanted to talk with would come in -- 8:30 in the morning? Or 8 at night? (Night.) As she woke this morning, she heard some chinks and giggles and was greeted by a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of milk. ("We don't know how to make coffee," B explained.) They wanted, he explained, to make "your life easier since Daddy is in the hospital."

On one level, I just wanted to cry and cry. You're supposed to get to be a child, not make mom (or dad's) "life easier." But what sensitivity and perception he shows. This is far from the only incident. He truly is a small miracle of gentleness, and I like to think we've had no small part in helping him get to be that way.

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Part what impresses me about this is that it represented a real sacrifice for him. For B., seeing peanut butter, handling peanut butter, SMELLING peanut butter, anything peanut butter is viscerally disgusting. He reacts like he's inhaling deeply from the breath of a javelina.

I also enjoyed how he took the lead in redirecting a compliment, a story familiar to LA/Lee Ann's burgeoning group of Twitter followers:

LA, to the kids: "You guys are sweet."

B: "Our mommy is so sweet!"

T: "...and Daddy is so sweet."

B: "Obviously, we inherited the sweetness gene."

Take that, Craig Venter! Millions (tens of millions?) of dollars spent, and I bet my eight-year-old is closer to deciphering the "sweetness gene" than you.

(Edited Aug. 18 for coherence.)