That Boy

I tried to figure out how many times I’ve said “That Boy” in reference to Henry in the last 10 days or so. There’s no telling. Hundreds?

For those who have heard me talk, you can imagine how many syllables “That Boy” has in it. For those who haven’t, it has approximately 12. And it involves a head shake and look of utter disbelief.

Here are a few recent situations.


Last week was spring break. I was reminded what a well-rounded little guy I’ve got. I’m not saying he’s any more well-rounded or awesome than anybody else’s kid, but sometimes I just stand back and am left speechless by how cool he really is.

We started spring break by going to my parents’ lake house for the weekend. My sister’s family was there, too, and for the first time in a while, we were all together.

It was there that I was reminded that he’s a Daddy’s Boy. Begging to fish at the crack of dawn, grabbing his rod and reel while everybody else is playing on the porch and heading to the dock, putting worms on real hooks — all the things he sees his Daddy do.

As I stood on the porch with my camera to capture this shot, I whispered to myself quietly, “That Boy.”

I watched him carry on big conversations with his cousins, teach his little cousin how to properly watch JAWS, tickle his baby cousin and be polite and gentlemanly to the adults. Several times, I heard myself think, “That Boy.”


We spent the week goofing off — spending time as a family, playing outside, the boys going biking. It was a nice week.

On Wednesday, Henry asked to go to the High Museum to see the Picasso to Warhol exhibit. I repeat, HE ASKED to go to an art exhibit. To say I was proud is an understatement.

So off we went to the museum. He was telling me about different artists the whole way there. My boy that normally only chatters about Spiderman, Star Wars, Fishing, Hiking and Snacks, was in the back discussing different painters and their stories.

We walked slowly through the whole exhibit, him reading every single description beside every single painting.