I used to call my son Grumpelstiltskin when he was teeny because he’d get so grumpy. He’d scrunch his wee face up, nose crumpled and eyes squished tight. And he’d scream! And scream and scream and scream until he was done. I’d forgotten all about it (the nickname, that is) until a day a few weeks ago when he was in a particularly grumbly mood and my husband suddenly stopped and said “wow! Grumpelstiltskin!” And I laughed and laughed and told him that’s exactly what I used to call him. We do this a lot, my husband and I. We say the same thing at the same time, or at least think the same thought before one or the other says it out loud. It’s odd. And hilarious. And also, wildly comforting. Today the three of us took a walk on the beach. As “please don’t go past your ankles” turned into full-on wave dodging, I kicked off my walking shoes and stepped closer to the water, ready to throw myself in fully if necessary. We were soon overrun by chilly waves reaching past our ankles, up to our knees and more. I glanced back at my husband, who stood further up the beach, away from the crashing waves, with a slight grin on his face. I imagined what was going through his head, something along the lines of those maniacs. By the time we left the beach, my pant legs were drenched and the boy soaked to his waist. This kid, he will always push past the line. He’s a bit of a rule breaker, a rebel, zesty. I believe these are deliciously delightful attributes. I also believe that I must always be on my toes with this boy, because I may have to jump in the ocean after his little butt.
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