We call our son, The Kraken. He’s 2. The kind of 2 that doctors write books about telling parents how to deal. The kind of 2 that will send a man to the doctor for a little snip snip if you catch my drift. The kind of 2 that would have made him an only child if little B. Rose wasn’t already here. I’m not here to complain. I love The Kraken, just giving some necessary background info.
Every evening my husband and I flop exhausted onto the sofa and brainstorm ways of sucking energy from our darling son. In all honesty, part of the reason we chose our new apartment was due to the pool. Everyone is tired after a day at the pool, right? We moved in two weeks ago and in those two weeks have been to the chlorine hole at least 12 times. (It has rained twice in 14 days.) My laundry room is more of a bathing suit staging area with suits hanging in various stages of dry. The Kraken loves the pool. He goes to bed asking to “wim” and wakes asking to “wim.”
The first day he was content to sit on the first step and watch the others splash about, but my husband isn’t really a ‘sit and watch’ sort of man. He took my baby into the deep end, dunked his head, threw him into the air and worse, all while my firstborn screamed, said “No tank you daddy,” and occasionally cried. Oh, was I going to wring his neck! That’s my baby.
Then the switch flipped one afternoon while momma and the baby were inside taking a nap. The Kraken started holding his own head underwater, leaping from the edge and telling daddy to ‘back up back up back up’ until daddy was far enough away that my son would go under water first before being pulled up from the depths. Sometimes he would even shout “Dare Devil” as he jumped (no doubt a suggestion from daddy). He would then climb the ladder, turn to the nearest sunbathing beauty, smile, wave and calmly state “Dare Devil” (no doubt something he decided would be beneficial to his future all on his own). My baby, The Kraken, The swimmer, The Flirt.
love it.
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