His and mine

The Man and I have neatly divided our children as though we were King Soloman.
Not by our choice.
By theirs.
Bug has announced with vim and vigor that he is my boy.
Boo has declared his allegiance to The Man.
Punk has been cut down the middle depending on if The Man has food or if she wants to snuggle me.
Boo has declared he doesn't love me--only Daddy--and that he only wants him.
Bug throws a fit when dad picks him up and he's looking for me.
Punk is mercurial. If you have food, she loves you best. If she's tired, she love me best. If she's playing, Daddy's the main choice. If she's sick, Mama. If she's feeling fiesty, Daddy.
Ping. Pong. Ping. Pong.
Truthfully, its bittersweet to watch my now green eyed boy (his eyes change color and have been a very pretty metallic green for a month now) want the Man instead of me.
I birthed him. I nursed him. I have a displaced rib thanks to him.
And I can't even get a hug hello most days.
I know its a stage. I know in time, he'll turn on Scott with the swiftness of a striking snake.
And I'll watch the Man's eye become sad as his boy doesn't want him.
At which time, Bug will throw me over for his dad.
They are consistantly incosistant.
They are passionate in their affections.
And they change their mood more often than their underwear.
And it's fascinating to watch.