Some happy genes fit better than others

Theo woke up at 4:45 a.m. today.  When I went into his room, he said, “Up.”

Or actually, he said, “M’up” because that’s what he says now.  I often ask, “Do you want to come up?” before I pick him up, so he blended the ‘m’ from ‘come’ and it turned into “m’up.”  Or maybe it just means “me up”?  It’s hard to tell with toddlers.

I picked him up and immediately he said, “Sit.”  I was exhausted because for heaven’s sake it was pre-dawn, which is hard to achieve in April at the western edge of the time zone.  So I sat right down as ordered.

He immediately curled up against my chest, frog-baby style, and fell fast asleep.  (Within about a minute, because he is a male, after all, and don’t all fathers seem to have this talent?)

This hasn’t happened in so long I can’t remember the last time.  It’s true, you know, that we don’t remember the lasts because we don’t realize that they are last at the time.  We always assume that something will happen again. So I’m writing about this in case it’s the last time he falls asleep in my arms.

I held that big-little body and rubbed his back and marveled at how fast he grew and how lucky I am and all of those clichés until he woke up 45 minutes later, grinned up at me, and said, “Hi!”

I often tell people that Theo got his father’s happy gene.  His cheerful soul is indeed perturbed by diaper changes and his parents’ refusals to give him cookies at every meal.  But then the happy gene kicks in and his pouty lower lip flips up into a smile and the world is right again.

I wonder, sometimes, if I am missing that happy gene.  I am the sensitive sort, who cries at books and movies and stupid commercials; whose feelings are easily hurt; who gets depressed every other week or so and doesn’t feel like talking to anyone.  So I worried when Sebastian seemed equally intense as a baby, then a toddler, and then I finally just accepted that he is like me.  Would he have a hard time being happy?  That’s supposed to be all we want for our kids, after all.

It turns out, though, that when I think about it, we are both intense in our happiness, too.  When I am happy, I feel overjoyed or profoundly content.  When I am sad, I’m depressed.  When I’m angry, I’m furious.  No matter how I am feeling, I find it difficult to imagine ever feeling anything else, even though many years of experience have taught me otherwise.

When I would get mad at my sister or brother for being bossy, I was sure I would never forgive them EVER.  Within an hour, we were best friends again.  When my husband and I argue, I start to inwardly bemoan the fact that we have no spare room because I’m sure I will never want to see him ever but there were vows and all that and we can’t get divorced and good grief the couch is uncomfortable and… but before I can really finish the train of thought I’m asleep, and the next morning I’ve moved on to the next feeling.

Sebastian is the same way.  He is unhappy, he’s miserable, we are horribly, terribly unfair and… then he’s racing off to happily play with his cars.

All of that is really just to say that even though Sebastian and I aren’t Pollyanna types, we have happy genes, too.  We must, because neither of us can resist this guy for very long.

Maybe it’s just our lot in life to have to work harder to tap into our happy genes.  Can genes be tapped into?  I’m going with yes.  It’s all part of that “growth mindset” I’m working on, which I already wrote about in a post I haven’t published yet, so you’ll just have to wait a few days, read that one, then come back here to this one.

And smile at that irresistibly cute face in the picture above.

Because I’m sure you, too, have a happy gene that peeks out when you see chubby cheeks and penguin rain boots.