While trying to hold an adult conversation tonight at Ben’s game, a friend of mine was almost nailed by a stray baseball. Some might consider this an occupational hazard while at the field, but no one expects to get beaned at the hands of a two-year old.

After apologizing to the unsuspecting Dad for my son’s line drive to his head, one of the Moms said, “Oh, he is so cute, I could just take him home.”

I immediately offered to make that dream a reality.

Now, don’t get me wrong: I love my little Quinn, really I do. He’s so cute and has a great sense of humor, but I’m quite sure that he’ll be the one to send me over the edge. It could be that there is such a big age gap between the three kids (eight and a half years) or that he is always tagging along to one of the other kids’ activities instead of going to one of his own, but he does his very best never to fade into the background.

And yes, I realize that in that respect, he takes after Mom.

Quinn’s arrival in October of 2009 was an absolute joy for the entire family, as the kids were old enough to really appreciate him (and we were thrilled for the help). From the time he arrived home from the hospital he was dragged from Soccer field to Basketball court to School Concert to Baseball field … often multiple times in a single day. 

On the first day he could walk, he dribbled a soccer ball. When he could grasp a ball, he threw it. I’m pretty sure that when he learns how to read a calendar, he’ll start crossing off the days until he can join one of the teams.

What I’ve seen lately in this little monkey is a steely resolve when it comes to …well, anything. You know, I’ve raised two other toddlers and maybe it’s because I’m busier or have simply lost patience with age (ahem), but I don’t recall the older ones getting under my skin like he does. He disagrees with EVERYTHING, no matter how foolish it might be:

(Points to a red balloon) “What color that balloon, Mommy?”

“It’s red, Quinn.”

“No it’s not.”

“Why would I lie to you?”

“It’s not red, Mommy.”

I mean, ridiculous things whose sole purpose is to drive me insane. Yet the craziest thing of all is that I try to reason with him. Have you ever tried talking sense into a toddler in disagreement mode? You’d have better luck sprouting wings and orbiting the sun.

Inevitably, it ends with a upper arm death grip grab and a firm “Quinn Shumway, do NOT be fresh to your mother. What do you have to say to me?”

Just as I’m about to hand him off to the mom who wants to take him home, he gives me a devilish grin, “flexes his muscles” or even plays the “I love you Mommy” trump card and I laugh. Smart kid, as he knows exactly how far he can push and when to pull me back in.

I guess I’ll let him stay after all. But to be safe, I’ll keep a helmet nearby.