Last night, as I tried to sleep between the alternate choruses of toddler and 29-year-old snorers, I thought about how much of a "boy" Schmoopie has grown into lately. There was a time when the apartment was devoid of toy trucks. Suddenly, last Christmas, we were inundated with Tonka, Little People, Little Tykes, Fisher Price and even Radio Shack trucks. There are cement mixers, dump trucks, pickups, fire engines, garbage trucks, Jeeps, construction trucks, big wheelers and oversized buses. We actually set up a pretend parking lot on our carpet, so he knows where to put the trucks when it's time to "Cull-LEAN UP!" Sometimes he demands to take the miniature cars and trucks with him everywhere we go. He *never* used to act this way about these boy toys. The Schmoop's favorite toys for months were the Fold and Go Kitchen, a play broom and dustpan, and a $4 kiddie stroller. Now my gender-neutral son has gone all-out boy on me, and I'm having hard time coping. Sure, he still loves to pretend sautee, thanks to his father's culinary skills, but the nitty gritty playing occurs with the trucks in tow. He smashes, crashes and pushes them around the apartment. There's more to it than the trucks, but I can't help but feel a bit nostalgic for the days before they descended upon us, live a wave of testosterone I can't ignore. My baby is growing up. He's morphing into a big boy.