LB

LB. That's John Mark.

His Mama couldn't tolerate Jimmy. It was great. Elvis-voiced, "I'm Jimmy. J-I-M-M-Y. Jimmy. King of the Babies. And I'm cool, man. Cool." Seth roled over laughing each time. Like her Mama, Mary Elizabeth didn't see what was so funny.

So, now it's LB. Was Little Britches. Is Linebacker. You see, if your baby spills his milk & cries, he'll be a quarterback. If he spills it & throws something, he'll be a linebacker. That's John Mark. Not a mean kid. Just expresses himself physically. Even his affection is pounding or dog-piling. Rough as a corncob

Last week: He put a beautiful form tackle on his sister. (Yes, it was his physical style hug, but Daddy saw a tackle. Okay?!) Ran right into her. On his knees. He was low. He took her down, Baby! BAM! She's flat on her back windless with a "what just happened & should I cry?" look in her eyes. I come fired up. Pull them out of the pile like a coach. Slap him on the fanny, "Good job, John Mark! Wasn't that great, Mary?" Mary Elizabeth wasn't so sure.

Last night: Kids are bathed & sweet-smellin'. I'm reading to Mary Elizabeth on the floor. LB moves in. On his feet. Moving faster than they can go. He plows into me. Head to head. BAM. He cries. I wince. Blood flows. A gashed nose. I exclaim, "Wow, Mary, look at that, John Mark hit me so hard he made me bleed! Cool." Again, Mary Elizabeth just doesn't get it. She's a girl.

LB. Rough as a corncob. That's my boy!