I hold you.

That's what Calvin used to say when he wanted us to hold him. But that was weeks ago, back when he was small, and now he says "hold me!" because he's big and grown up and so so smart. He also says "I come, too!" while scrambling to collect his "guys" (Bear, Grinch, Dog, Snowman, Hop, Elmo, Cookie, Teddy, and Mickey — can't go anywhere without that motley crew) so he can tag along whenever one of us leaves the room. Every single item of clothing he owns, no matter how large, has been dubbed "tight." He's charmed his teacher with his many exclamations of "holy cow!" and any time we ask him where something or someone has gone, he says "MEXICO!" Which is then followed by a garbled "Adidios!"

At night he requests his favorite bedtime songs by name: "John" (Are You Sleeping), "Twinkle," "Sunshine" (You Are My Sunshine) and, recently, "Jesus" (Jesus Loves Me). He insists on choosing between his Pooh (daytime) or Mickey (overnight) diapers at every diaper change. Once I told him the sun goes to sleep at night, and now whenever the sun is setting on our drive home from daycare, he whispers "Shhhh...sun sleeping." He drags the step stool across the room and up to the kitchen counter and says "I help" whether I'm cooking dinner or doing dishes — and if there's something on the stove he insists on being held so he can watch it cook. He shakes his finger at Matilda and tells her "no no no no no!" when she sits next to his chair at dinner, hoping for a crumb or two. He is always game for a ride on the "train" — Nate's way of getting him to climb on his back for a trip down the stairs. Recently he ran over to climb on the train, wrapped his little arms around Nate's neck, popped a surprise Cheerio into Nate's mouth, and said "yum!"

And last night, despite my efforts to convince him otherwise, he slept with a spatula.

He's completely adorable. And exasperating. He wants to do everything himself. Make every decision, open and close every door, turn off every light, feed the dog, choose his snack, wash his hair, fill his sippy cup. The mere offer of help — without any physical action — results in a chorus of "No no no, Mama. No Mama, NO! I do it!" He vigorously waves me off, fearing I might take away his opportunity to show us how big, how smart, how independent he is. He's growing in every way possible, and he wants to be sure we notice.

As if I could miss it.