Month forty-nine

Dear Henry,

If I had to declare a worst month on record to date, this past month was it. Oy vey, are we ever butting heads. But here's the thing, you're still an awesome kid. I mean, seriously, I wouldn't trade you for anyone else, not even one of those kids who tell their parents they are tired and then go up to bed by themselves at 7P.M. I might trade you for a million bucks, though, so keep that in mind the next time you want to be difficult. (Difficult in my book means not immediately doing what I ask you to, which admittedly is a pretty high expectation for someone your age. And I'm joking so don't lose any sleep over what I just said. Please.)

Beyond your ever-growing independence streak, you are doing just great. It feels like we're on month ten of your love affair with sea creatures but it hasn't been nearly that long. I can't wait for you to discover new things that catch your fancy. Hopefully, the biology book I got you for Christmas will spark a love of all things necessary to become a doctor. (Do parents still wish for their kids to grow up and become doctors?) You're actually sort of merging the two now that I think of it a bit. I mean, you always have the EMTs arrive at the scene to save the divers from whatever sea creature turned vicious and attacked.

Perhaps the most disturbing bit of news is that you are resorting to throwing things when you get upset. The positive spin on this is that your aim is remarkable and, if I had to guess, you're pitching that stuff at my head at about 70 mph. So, you know, maybe sports will be one of your things. It'll be The Curious Case of Henry Finn. (Yeah, you should marvel at that, Bean. Your mom can pull out obscure sports literary references like that <insert snap of fingers here>. That, son, is what going to a liberal arts college can do for you. You're welcome.)

You are a ham. And you pose for pictures making funny faces. You have a vivid imagination. We while away the time in the car creating stories. Here's the process: You'll ask me to tell a story about something. I'll ask you to give me the elements of the story. You'll give me a list of characters and actions. I'll put together the story as outlined. Then, I'll conclude with a "And they all lived happily ever after. The end." Alas, that is not the end because as far as you're concerned there is always a morning after and so you'll keep it going with a "Mama, and the next morning ---". It's pretty cool but also sort of exhausting because you won't let the story end. Ever. The normal restrictions don't apply - the story can be about your real life friends but then Batman makes an appearance and the bank robber is placed in the paddy wagon after a tree falls down and blocks the road and the SWAT team catches up and nabs him. I mean, not in a million years would I have brought that all together on my own.

You're so grown up! You can zip your jacket all by yourself. You are practicing gripping a pencil because you know it makes me so, so happy. And drawing lines from point A to point B, well, you have that down pat. (Most of your friends are reading Dostoyevsky's Crime and Punishment and writing soliloquies that rival work from The Bard. To be fair, though, in a foot race you'd kick all their asses.) The thing I've learned about you, Bug, is that you'll do it when you're good and ready. Take swimming, for instance. I signed you up for semi-private lessons with Avery figuring you would sit out and Avery would basically get private lessons with a built-in audience. But! You got right into the pool as if it was the most natural thing to do, as if you hadn't previously declined to even touch a toe to the water during our summer lessons, which I ended up canceling because you wouldn't get into the pool.

You giggle when I tickle your neck and run away but then come right back and beg for me to do it again. You are demanding but acquiesce when pressed. You like hugs, but not the squeezy hugs your papa wants to give you all the time, unless it is one of those times when you do like the squeezy hugs. And you're a huge fan of peppermint chocolate milkshakes. What's not to love about those, eh? Thanks for being you, Bean.

Love,
Mama