The prize winner of defiance

I have known for some time now that Samson James has a bit of a willful streak. Genetically speaking, he was probably predisposed to this. For sure, the quickest way to get Vicki not to do something is to tell her to do it. Likewise, I have a reputation in my family for avoiding confrontation not by carrying out the requested action but simply by nodding and then quietly going my own way.

But this put Vicki and me to shame.

On Sunday, while protesting the removal of his diaper, he hit my arm. Nothing more than a little swipe, to be sure, but it was meant to say: "hey, buddy, I prefer to stay in this poop diaper."

Or something along those lines.

In any event, I reacted by saying "Samson! We don't hit in this house. When you're angry you don't hit people. Say you're sorry."

To which he solemnly responded, "people."

But he definitely knew he'd done something wrong, and he also knew that I was unhappy. How do I know? Because he immediately started saying "hi" and smiling and trying to change the subject by observing that the cat was "funny" and offering up a host of other non sequiturs.

Obviously, I didn't want to make a huge deal out of this, but since he's closing in on 2 [at least chronologically; psychologically, I think he's already there], I know he's testing the limits of what he can get away with. So again, I said, "Samson, say you're sorry."

Nothing doing. He flat out refused to say it. Which is not to say he clammed up. Indeed, he was as chatty as he always is, but he was just not giving in on that word.

Since it was the end of the day, this standoff continued through the donning of pjs, the washing of the face, the traditional getting of a cup of water for the crib, etc.

I could feel myself actually getting angry at this intransigence, which, of course, was ridiculous.

But a small part of me was also proud in a weird way. I could see in his eyes that flicker of recognition of free will, looking right back at me as if to say: "I know what you'd like me to do; it's just that I prefer not to."

In the end---and after I had given him some hugs (stern, disapproving hugs, to be sure) and put him to bed---he did say "sorry."

And I'm not sorry to say, I was relieved. That kid is tough.

Which, in and of itself is not a bad quality for lawyers and Army assassins. But it's less cool when it's somebody you need to hold still while you change his diaper.