Oh, Henry!

Henry. Oh, Henry. I have written three posts about Luke now, with hardly a word about my Henry. It is so easy for me to write about Luke. I feel like there are so many things with Luke that I want to work through, so many funny stories and so many heartaches I want to detail. But Henry is different. He is a second child. I've done it all before. I think so much less about everything with him and enjoy it all so much more. Not that I enjoy Luke less than I do Henry, but everything is far more intense with my firstborn. My relationship with Luke is a first love. Everything is exciting and new and puzzling and heart-wrenching. With Henry, it is a mature relationship. The first thrills are over, but the comfort and ease make most things more simply enjoyable.

Even the way that they each came into the world was so very different. Luke refused to budge in the birth canal--or perhaps I refused to let him go. I pushed in every way known to woman, for five hours, and still he was pulled from me with forceps. It was painful and disorienting and shocking and, yes, traumatic. And then the life changes that came once we brought him home! We had to become different people. It took us at least a year to resume some semblance of normal life, and what was normal had forever changed. Henry, though, tumbled from me in a short time, at home, and we were all napping a few hours later. Our life carried on almost immediately.

And, because I'm now a disorganized mama of two who can't think straight, because I spend admittedly too much time analyzing my firstborn's every move, because I have no memory left after twice going through the hormone haze of pregnancy and early motherhood, I offer this series of disjointed vignettes about Henry. Because I don't want to forget some of these times with him, and because who knows if I'll ever write in his baby book.

Henry has so much desire for independence. I suppose this is a trait of many second children, but it amazes me still. He unloads the dishwasher. If he can't get a dish out, I cannot take it out myself. I have to pull it out only enough that he can get it. He hands me the dishes, which I put away. But lately, he wants to put the silverware away himself, since he can (barely) reach the drawer. He hurls each piece of silverware up with reckless abandon, hoping it will land in the drawer, as I shudder, hoping the forks and knives won't fall back into his face. His other housekeeping hobbies include vacuuming, mopping, and putting laundry in the washing machine. We're working with him on loading the dishwasher.

He wants to walk everywhere we go. Or, really, not walk so much as trot. My four year old reclines happily in the stroller while my 17 month old trots along on the sidewalk.

Henry is obsessed with shoes, and this is recently spilling over into clothes in general. He gets his mind set on a certain pair of shoes, a certain shirt, and nothing else will do. I recently bought him a pair of black, white and pink cow rain clogs, which he loves. The great thing about them is that he can get them on and off himself, so he can entertain himself for long stretches of time. "Oooh! Shoes! Cow!" he yells. Then he takes them off. Back on. "Ooh! Shoes! Cow!" Repeat. Repeat.

Oh, that Henry.