I'm cowboy

Each morning when I rise for work I am greeted by wg3. He sits on the floor of the bathroom as I shower, he picks out the pants, I pick out the shirt, he picks out the orange, I pick out the yogurt. We're a team and he's very helpful. I very much enjoy our time together each morning.

Part of our routine is that I sit down and he crawls into my lap. I hug him and tell him I love him, that I'm grateful Heavenly Father sent him to our family, that he's a good boy. To this of late he unequivocally responds, "I'm not a boy. I'm a cowboy!" I always accept the correction with surprise and apology. He's adopted this persona since his Uncle JG gave him the boots his older three cousins had handed down.

Tonight at his soccer practice, yes he's three and yes he's in soccer, the coach had everyone say their names. The coach is a friend of ours and he knows wg3's name, but for the benefit of the others asked him to say it. I was a little way off, but still within ear shot when coach got to him. "What," the coach asks? Something unintelligible. "I thought your name was wg3," says the coach. "I'm cowboy," I hear. A look from the coach, "He answers to both," says I and the day went on. We've really got to find him a cowboy hat.