Punk

Once upon a time he was Punkin, but he outgrew such a cutesy name long ago. Now he is the Punk, and in every way rebellious and always carving his own path.

He is four years old, as of May 27th, and has accomplished much in his few years. He has a number of handy talents, like the ability to get anything sticky, even without having had a sticky food himself. Yes, I’m teasing. I hate to brag too much, after all.

In all seriousness though, the Punk inherited his daddy’s brains. By the age of three he had learned to recognize and name both upper and lower case letters, as well as tell you what sound they make; he’d learned the names of more colors than most people ever know; and he could recognize numbers up to 9, though he sometimes still gets them in the wrong order while counting.

He’s also very talented in the art of trouble-making. There is no desk or shelf he cannot climb, no door he cannot open, no baby gate he cannot find a way around. On several occasions nice neighbors have brought him home after he’d escaped silently out a window or door to dance in the street half naked.

He enjoys such things as painting walls with acrylics, forgetting to turn the sink off with the plug in and flooding the bathroom, hiding his illicit candies in the back of the toilet and then saying “uh, I dunno” when we ask how they got there, and my personal favorite: stealing the digital camera and filling the 1g card with pictures of Buttons butt, close ups of toys and fabrics and sometimes the insides of his nostrils.

All in all, he’s your typical little boy. He likes to run, jump and spin in circles like a crazy person, his cars and trains are his most prized possessions, and his favorite color is green.