The day Henry was born he started smiling and he hasn’t really stopped since.
Oh sure, he has his moments, his little tirades of crying and flopping down on the kitchen floor and rolling around as if I’d just told him that the world had run out of milk and it was gonna be cranberry juice from here on out.
But that stuff usually only goes down when I take away something sharp he has managed to find himself, some new deadly toy weapon he thinks is cool.
Mostly, our son Henry is what you would call ‘happy-go-lucky’.
And that’s not a term I like to bandy about all that much either because to me it sort of conjures up an image of a slightly drunken Leprechaun whistling some Pogues tune aloud while he stops at the end of the village/not a care in the world, and has an afternoon pee at the base of a giant mushroom.
Actually come to think of it…that’s kind of eerily similar to some stuff that Henry actually does do.
Well now, whatever the true meaning of the phrase, my son seems to fit it. He’s a really happy roguish lad and his excitement/effervescence/daredevilness is so contagious that I find myself really looking forward to his appearance each and every morning. Truth be told, if he isn’t smiling or laughing when I see him first thing, I know in my guts that he’s more than likely sick with a bug or something.
That’s how cheerful the tiny dude is.
So here we are. Henry, along with his big sister, Violet, have made my life way way better than I ever dreamed life could be.
So, if it’s alright by you, I’m gonna brag on the boy here just a little bit.
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