"I am a fire truck, Mama!"
Tommy has taken his love of fire engines to new heights lately. I've lost track of the number of consecutive days he's worn his fire shirt. I tried to remove it in his sleep tonight to wash it in secret and slip it back on him later, and he woke up halfway through. His screams set off the security alarm and had Chris thinking he was injured. My mistake.
He's been asking to wear his fire truck underwear (yes, we've made great strides in the potty training department since the last blog post), which would be fine except he has none. No worries, he makes due, imagining fire trucks on his car underwear. The weather is finally getting to be consistently great for being outdoors and running around, yet the only shoes he wants to wear are his fire boots, which are horrible for running in. He covets a red chief's hat, but calling his red Nationals baseball hat his fire hat will suffice. Yesterday I knew we'd hit a new level of love when he said, "watch me comb my fire truck hair, Mama!"
We're loving that imagination of his.