King of the Hen Pen and Footprints Where They Don't Belong

I recently conversed with a woman at the shoe repair shop who told me that she always called her poor only son the King of the Hen Pen.  That fits Henry perfectly with his three sisters, and I think I may use it going forward.  During morning mass, our priest, Fr. Larry, described his birth order as following two older sisters.  He asked the young children to raise their hands if they had older sisters, and he even offered to pray for those with more than a few.  It was cute and humorous.  At school the students are collecting socks for the less fortunate.  Sock It to Poverty/Crazy Sock Week almost turned into Sock One Another Over Crazy Socks in my household this morning.  We are apparently boring in the sock department, because the children do not have an abundance of options for Crazy Sock Week in which anything goes in the sock department.  One child was taunting another about wearing a certain pair of socks, and WWIII about broke out in our loft.  Ugly words were expressed to siblings, and I was most disappointed and angered.  However, our fine priest described in his homily the challenge of sharing and being patient with our siblings.  He emphasized compassion and kindness...the very points I attempted to make this morning after the sock fight.  I told Robbie that I am ever grateful for the blessing of their Catholic school and the common values that are reinforced on a daily basis.

Before I depart from the topic of feet, in my last entry I can't believe that one of Henry's most outrageous missteps of his young life escaped me.  In the spring cracked sections of our sidewalks were jackhammered and new concrete was poured by the city.  The wet areas were roped off with bright warning tape.  We walked around these squares for a few days as we traveled to and from school.  I often allow the children to run ahead once we get to a certain point in the walk.  Henry ran ahead, and that son of mine mindlessly ran smack through the wet cement in his new spring tennis shoes.  He left four foot depressions as one would imagine depicted in a cartoon.  Jane Hill was with me, and she was much more entertained by the situation than I was in that moment.  I couldn't believe it.  Henry dumbfounded me.  I honestly don't think he meant any harm.  He just wasn't paying a bit of attention to his path, and he ran straight into concrete that had not dried.  The girls shrieked and ran up the street to report the incident to the concrete worker man.  Thankfully, it only took him a few seconds to smooth the depressions.  Sometimes I think that what I can't even invent in my head, my son executes.  I am too often saying, "Son.  Can you please help me understand why it seemed like a good idea to ____?"  He just lives.  He doesn't waste too much time analyzing cause and effect or making risk assessments like his cautious old mother.  I pray for his safety and for my ability to be patient and kind and slow to anger daily.  May God not give Henry any brilliant ideas that I can't handle.  Jane always smiles and comments on his creativity.  She is a woman of great grace.