Who colored on you?

When my littlest was younger he was a calm, quiet, little guy. He was content to simply sit back and watch the world unfold around him. He wasn’t that child that would talk to anyone. In fact, he rarely exchanged information verbally with strangers. If you, the stranger, approached him to chat about how cute he was, he would simply smile at you while holding tightly onto me, his savior; his mom. 

Being the mom of other children, I loved these traits in my youngest bundle of love. My oldest was brave, bold, and adventurous. He was born ready to explore the world and its inhabitants. By himself. He didn’t want my help. He didn’t need me or my guidance. 

So, I relished my littlest and his sweet personality. I could take him shopping without incident. He didn’t want to go off by himself. Hell, he didn’t even want out of the cart. He didn’t have tantrums for candy bars. He was a perfect replica of a perfect boy: cute, cuddly, and silent. He would never say embarrassing things to strangers because he wouldn’t talk to them. It was awesome. 

Until...we were standing in line with a very ominous looking guy covered in tattoos standing behind us. Head to toe, tattoos. This guy was huge, intimidating, and unfriendly. He didn’t smile at my adorable boy.  He didn’t smile at anyone. Being the diligent, overprotective mother, I physically tried to block my preciousness from view. But my boy wasn’t hiding behind my motherly strength; he was twisting and turning to get a better view of this daunting creature of manliness behind me. 

And out of nowhere, completely to my horror, my boy says, “Who colored on you?” 

The big scary guy laughed all the way out of the store.