When Henry was a baby, he would nap in the fancy stroller, the pretty one that was clearly designed as an accessory because it was only good for walking around the mall or other enclosed places with flat surfaces to roll on; it was impossible to fold up with one hand, and the wheels went four different directions if we pushed it on any piece of ground that was not completely level. It’s only redeeming quality was that it was so cute; it looked great in photos. Because it was such a pain to use, we pretty much turned it into a bed for Henry during the day, instead of putting him in his crib. He was the first baby and he was premature and tiny and sometimes had trouble breathing and I was afraid to have him too far from me because something bad might happen if I wasn’t looking at him every single second of the day.

I was tired when Henry was a baby, you all. It takes a lot of energy to be that obsessed.

Henry would sleep on his back, with his wee skinny arms thrown over his head and his nose poking off into the air. He always looked so serious, like sleeping was hard work and he really was having to concentrate to keep himself asleep. He was clearly an insominac from the very beginning.

These days, when I go in to wake him for school, he is typically wound up in the quilt, and often is crosswise in his bed, with his head nowhere near the pillows and his feet hanging off the edge. But he still pokes his nose up in the air, and he still has that same serious look on his face.

Over the weekend, Henry’s class made their First Holy Communion; Henry did not, of course, because we’re not Catholic, but today, at the regular school Mass, the second graders all wore their special clothes and were in charge of the various parts of the service. Henry did not want to wear anything different, because change is bad! bad, I tell you! and when he saw what I had bought for him — a blue shirt just like one of Wade’s and a silk tie that zipped instead of tying (because Wade is out of town today and I’ll be damned if I know how to tie a tie) — he cried and cried and insisted that he just wanted to wear his regular dress uniform.

I took a deep breath and tried to explain, for what I promise you is the millionth time, that it does not hurt to put nice clothes on every once in a while, that it’s a way of showing respect for people and events, and that it would be okay to wear this shirt and this tie instead of his regular shirt and tie, just for a little while. And then I reminded myself that I could have a daughter, who would be mad at me because all of her friends got a big white princess dress for their First Communions, and that would make me even crazier.

(Meanwhile, Charlie was lurking around in the back, eyeing the tie, because he loves to get dressed up. Later he asked, “If Henry isn’t going to wear those clothes, can I have them?” And I said, “OH HENRY IS GOING TO WEAR THOSE CLOTHES.” And then I promised to buy him a zip up tie of his own.)

By yesterday, Henry had relented, of course, and was happy to try on the clothes. The khakis I had picked out were two sizes too big (why are kids clothing sizes so inconsistent? WHY???) but he had another pair of khakis, hidden in the back of his closet, that he had never worn, so I ironed those and the shirt and this morning he got all dressed and went in the bathroom and stood next to Wade, who was tying his tie, and admired himself in the mirror.

And then he put on his tennis shoes (also new, because his toes were poking out of the old pair) and said, “I wish I had some shoes that were not tennis shoes to wear today. It would look nicer, since I’m all dressed up.”

Henry makes me crazy with his worry and his resistance to change, and he makes me even crazier when he decides that the new thing he has been resisting is a good thing after all and he should embrace it with his whole heart and both his arms. He has always been like that, hesitating and considering and worrying and then going for broke just about the time I am ready to give up and give in.

It’s one of the things I love the most about him, too.

Henry read at Mass today, the story of Paul’s conversion on the road to Damascus. It’s one of his favorite Bible stories, because the turning point for Paul is when he’s riding down the road and a flash of light blinds him. When he was little, he would tell us the story: “Saul is riding his horse and there’s a BIG FLASH and he FALLS OFF HIS HORSE!” And then he would laugh and laugh and laugh because whoo that’s funny, the flash and the falling off the horse, especially when you’re three.

The end of the story, of course, is this: Paul is blind for three days, and then the scales fall from his eyes and he begins a new life. It was a good reading for Henry, who is often blinded by worry and then sees the light and gets up and starts over with something new.

When I saw Henry today, in his little mini-Wade shirt and his perfectly pressed pants, I found myself looking for that tiny sleeping baby. He still looks exactly the same, just like he did in the moments after he was born and the nurses wrapped his wee little body in a burrito of hospital receiving blankets and handed him to me, for exactly ten seconds, because he wasn’t crying and was having a hard time breathing — he still looks just the same, this big kid in the tie. My baby. He’s just waiting for that flash of light so he can do the next big thing.