The Pleasure Principle

There are times in your life when you regret certain financial decisions.  Perhaps you shouldn’t have purchased that luxury car, or maybe that flat panel 60″ tv wasn’t such a good idea.   Of course, there’s those $500 Manolo Blahniks you convince you’re husband you’ll wear everyday and with every outfit, only to find out that they hurt your feet so much, that you’re spending the same amount of money on daily foot massages.   And then there are days like today, when you realize that perhaps you jumped the gun just a bit when you decided that it was ok to finally have your hair colored, obliterating that mocking gray hair that has begun showing it’s nasty claws.

Last month, I thought it was high time I should color this gray hair.   I felt the gray had worn out its welcome, as if I’d ever willingly hold open the door and allow it into my life.  I thought it was a wonderful time for a fresh start.   Henry’s two years old, I’m fixed, so there won’t be anymore little Dosers to grace this world, and I’ve begun triathlon training again, which means I’m FINALLY getting my pre-baby (more like pre-Henry, since I lost all of it I gained with Davey) weight back.     Why not get a whole new look?   Why not spend that money to get the good salon job, not the $10 “wash that gray right outta my hair” drugstore purchase?   Why not?   Let me tell you “why not”.  One word, or should I say “one name”…HENRY!

This afternoon, my darling second child decided that I needed more excitement in my life.   Apparently, he felt that either a.) he wasn’t getting his fair share of attention, b.) that I had become much too relaxed in my parenting, or c.) his pleasure principle was in overload and was taking over any and all ration thought.

This afternoon, while walking into my office, I came through our 20 foot foyer, our staircase climbing along the right side of the wall.  My idea???  I hadn’t written a blog in a while, and although I had no clue what I wanted to write it on, I knew I needed to write, if not for my followers (thank you to all of you), then at least for me.   I continued to contemplate, “what will I write about, have there been any firsts with the kids or with me?” And that, my friends, is when my darling, sweet little Henry seemed to call out to me with my latest blog post.   Yes, yes, as I walked into the foyer I heard, “Hey, Mom,” calling out from right above my head.  Was I imagining this?   He seemed so close and right above my head, surely I was wrong.  Or was I?

As I turned around and began looking upward, I saw my two year old, his feet along the outer parts of the staircase railing, his one hand grasped tightly on the spindles, and his other hand extended out waving to me.   I nearly crapped myself!  My stomach dropped, my voice rain away deep within the confines of my throat, and my mind completely went blank.   With no thoughts of what was happening, no screams of fear or worry, I jumped the gate, which was strategically placed at the bottom of the staircase, and bounded up the stairs, 5 at a time (thank God I have long legs!).   12 feet in the air was my baby, my second born, my flesh and blood, precariously climbing up the outer parts of the staircase by holding onto the railing.   There was nothing to protect him should he lose his grip.  The only thing to break his fall?   A plant and wooden table.   And God help me if he were to accidentally hit the mirror hanging on the wall above the plant.   If the fall alone didn’t break his neck and kill him, then the cut from the mirror may well do it.

It took a split second for me to reach him, a huge smile upon his face, and pull him back over to the “safe” side of the staircase.   He was smiling the entire time, until he looked into my eyes and seemed to register the fear he had forced into my life.

“Henry, what were you thinking?” I asked as I tried to prevent myself from going hysterical, the continuous thoughts of him falling playing over and over in my brain.

“I wanna go upstairs, mom,” he said so nonchalantly.

“But, you can’t climb like that.  You could get hurt,” I said as I carried him down the stairs.   He just looked at me, as if not registering what I was saying.

My boys are so different.   I try not to compare, but it’s hard when you’ve raised one who is cautious, thoughtful, and a thinker.   Davey is a “look before you leap” sort of kid.   Henry?   His pleasure principle seems to be in overload and he’s not grasping the consequences.  Not only did he stop my heart, turn all of my hair white, and age me another 40 years, but he also reminded me of how grateful I am that he is my last, otherwise I may not be alive to see my oldest graduate from kindergarten much less college.

 

Henry's daredevil
Picture my 2 year old, holding on directly above the mirror. Picture it for a moment and let it settle.

 

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