He's growing up.

This week, his speech teacher had some good news. She told Dale she's not sure how much longer she's going to need to see The Boy, given how much progress he's made and how well he's doing. Once a sound is successful more than half the time, it's diminishing returns.
So why did that make me tear up? I can understand him, his daddy can, even my mother with her hearing can understand him. Then again, she's always has been able to. She couldn't hear well, he couldn't speak well, but they always managed to communicate. It was weird.
I've got no problem with him doing kindergarten math or phonics, and he's starting to read too. Those don't bother me. The reverse, in fact--I'm quite proud. But this speech thing brings a lump to my throat.

And the other thing... He still wants to marry me first, but he knows that since I'll be "old" by the time he grows up, I'll probably die [where do these grim thoughts come from?]. Then he'll marry Angela.
Who is Angela? The eight-year-old girl who was living across the street from us for some months who has become Madeleine's best friend. Her mother and stepdad were going through what I'll euphemistically call "a rough patch," but when they readjusted their priorities and put the children first, things shook out much better for all of them.
Anyway, she'd come over with her collection of Beanie Baby kittens (about half a dozen, not the whole oeuvre), play with my kids, all that. No trouble at all.
So when The Boy said he wanted to be a cat for Halloween, why didn't I get it? I thought he'd like to be St. Michael, wear the armor, brandish a sword. But no, he stuck with cat. That evening, when he's wearing his headband-with-ears and I had drawn the whiskers on him, he said, "This will make Angela happy." I could have smacked myself in the forehead. Angela went trick-or-treating with our crew, so she did see his outfit. I was told they were holding hands on the return trip.

Sigh. At least he's got good taste.