Last year I turned 40, and I decided that it was time to gain confidence in the use of my limbs. To see a Frisbee being tossed my way and catch it, or at least try, instead of shrieking and throwing myself to the ground.
This isn't the first time a piece of entertainment has frightened Henry to the point that he requires constant companionship. "My God, Scott," I said, after he told me what he had done. "Does the name Miffy mean nothing to you?"
Babies, as we are told, might bite or kick or punch or pull or grind because they are little scientists, innocently exploring their world by pummeling it into a mush. They don't mean any harm; they just want to see what will happen when they knock something senseless, is all.
I mean, sure, my pint-size iconoclast will probably be confident and successful someday, but a weak-willed conformist would be so much more pleasant today. I don't really want to break his spirit. Not completely.