Braed

 Braed is my photography buddy.  He rode all over the countryside with me in the pickup, looking for good picture-taking spots.  We'd jump out of the truck, he'd stand where I asked him to, and he'd smile.  I'd take a few shots, then ask for a sad face, and he'd frown as much as he could.  His payment for modeling?  I had to let him put the camera around his neck so he could take a few shots, too.

He really is a little monster.  I feel his middle-child pain.

This is how I will remember Braed as a little monster:

Sucking his thumb.

We had a talk about thumb-sucking while checking out photography spots.

I told him his teeth would grow crooked and he wouldn't be able to eat and he'd be hungry all the time. "An I can't wink either?" he asked me.  "Nope, no drinking either I suppose.  No more Capri sun," I told him.

He popped that thumb out of his mouth and gave me a big ol' Braed grin.  Nobody has a smile like Braed's.

Braed is a horrible secret keeper.  We were talking about the weather, like little old people, and I told him Uncle Will is afraid of the thunder and lightening.  I said he cries like a little baby.  What a weenie, I told Braed.  Braed promised not to tell Uncle Will.

We walk in the house an hour later.

"Uncle Will!  Auntie Manda said....!!!"  Thanks for nothin, Braed.