A tough age

No, not 33. I'm doing OK with that. But Henry is not quite 2 years old, and this is the age of my kids that's the roughest on me. I don't even mean the defiance that Henry has that Padraic, my people pleaser, only ever had a hint of. It's the mobility without maturity aspect.

I just spent three long days of Memorial weekend chasing Henry around three different bbqs. One of them involved a hot tub he was desperately trying to catapult himself into headfirst, and another involved an inground pool that was right there next to where we were eating. Heart attack city on the last one.

I keep telling myself next summer will be easier. He'll be able to play in sight but not have to be within arm's reach at all times like he pretty much has to be right now. Where Padraic was always tentative about new things, Henry is ready to rush in head first, and he is too young to know anything about consequences.

Of course, next summer might not be easier. In my head Henry will be the easily tractable three-year-old that Padraic was, but that is probably not going to be the case. Somewhere along the genetic line there was a stubbornness gene that seems to have implanted itself firmly (stubbornly, you might say) into Henry's DNA. I have no idea where that might have come from. I swear. Really.