Ruler of the Home

I believe in the power of a name.

If I had known ahead of time that Henry was going to be diagnosed with Sensory Processing Disorder, I would have chosen a name that was derived from something docile. (I just looked this up, my child would totally have rocked Masueto or Nao, who cares if he is whiter than white.) Since I did not know this, I chose Henry. I willingly fought to name my son Henry. For months. I spent months picking away at my husband's defenses until he finally agreed, albeit conditionally, that we could name our second son Henry. "If he looks like a Henry when he comes out."

We thought he did.

Henry's SPD frequently remind me of Henry VIII.  Yes.  My toddler reminds me of the man that divorced the British nation from Catholicism, then his wife, and then became so disagreeable he killed the woman that he spent seven years of his life attempting to bed and created a new church for because someone said that she might be sleeping around and with her brother. I am constantly amazed by Henry VIII. I am also constantly amazed by my little tyrannical Henry.

Today Henry:
- pushed his brother off a chair
- tried to befriend an ant and then stomped him to oblivion when he was bitten
- bit my thigh and then curled into fetal position and sobbed with remorse
- spent the entire day naked and adamantly refusing all clothing except his new black crocs
- tipped over three kitchen chairs
- knocked two closet doors off their runners
- stole all of his brothers food and then slapped him with a plate when he tried to take it back
- tackled his 16 month little brother to the floor
- yelled at Tom Hiddleston's portrayal of Captain Hook in the Pirate Fairy, calling him "a big, mean, meany!", at the top of his extremely healthy lungs
- threw a bean bag chair across the room

To be fair, Henry also rubbed my back gently and gave me constant hugs in between his reigns of terror. And like Henry of Tudor times, he is incredibly athletic, intelligent, charming, and strong. When he chooses to be.

I am constantly amazed that women still choose to have children. I mean, I chose to have Henry after having Walter, a clearly gifted child that started talking at 5 months and hasn't stopped since. ("Can we eat hamburgers again today? I am feeling carnivore-ish. Like a dinosaur.") Don't get me wrong, I adore my boys. They are the light of my light, even on days when I think I might die alone in prison from losing my inner battle to kill one of them. All women are secret sadists.

And today, I can't help but think that I really should have named this kid Nao.