Spencer is my younger brother, and Mason is named after him as a nod to their almost shared birthdays; March 23rd and 25th. I told him if Mason was a boy they could share middle names, I kinda didn’t think I’d actually get lucky enough for another boy. But nope. He’s a boy. He has all the parts to prove it.
You might be wondering how one can be a “Spencer,” please, let me explain.
As a baby, toddler, young child (lets be honest, he’s 20 and this still applies) Spencer was the child you weren’t expecting. Cute, chubby cheeks, sweetest little angelic smile, loving, and could destroy a room in under two minutes all while laughing and saying he loves you. But no, there’s more. Even little he looked for adventure and had to explore everything. And touch everything. And taste everything. Sweetest child ever, but you couldn’t have him out of your sight for a second or all heck would break loose. (If you’re curious how I know all of this – I’m six years older than Spencer)
And Mason, well… Mason is such a Spencer. It’s like he has taken his name as a challenge – a challenge that he has accepted. Don’t get me wrong, I love the little dude, and as I am not his six year older sibling, I have much more patience and humor this time around. But Lord have mercy! It seems like every other sentence out of my mouth is some variation of “Mason Spencer, NO!” or “Mason! Do not put that… MASON, get that out of your mouth… SPENCER NO! No run away!” At least the boy keeps my days from being boring.
To top it off – Mason has mastered the throwing of fits.
He will slowly lower himself to the ground, wait until your are looking at him, then fling his shoulders and head down, spread his arms, kick his feet, and make the fakest crying noises ever. And if you attempt to ignore him, or walk away, he will follow you around, repeating the process, until you pay adequate attention.
Or until I just say screw it, pick him up, and then put him in his seat until he’s done.