REFLECTED: The kid you know at three is very similar to the adult you'll know at 30. At least that's what my mom thinks.

We were talking on the phone this weekend after Eileen and I got back from our parent/teacher conference at C.J.'s school. My mom called just as we were arriving home, and I was telling her some of the things the teacher said, and telling her how much they aligned with the things we see at home.

He's masculine, said his teacher, but very kind and thoughtful. Sensitive, even. (That she would call a three-year-old masculine struck me as a bit funny, but a) I was happy to hear it, and b) I know what she means.) He's very into routine and order; he seems to thrive within a tight structure, to crave it. He's very social and has a lot of friends of both sexes. He has one posse of boys in particular that are his constant playmates. He's motivated to do his "work" (it's a Montessori program, so that's what they call their structured stuff), and he's particularly taken with water-based activities. He's polite. ("When he runs into the other kids when he's racing around on the playground, he always stops and says, 'Oh, Katy, I'm so sorry. Excuse me.'")

My mom then commented that so many of these emerging personality traits will continue well into adulthood, that she's seen it in her boys, in me. She told me that I was always a good student, didn't have any trouble with the coursework, had plenty of friends...but had a big problem with authority. At home and at school. You couldn't tell me anything. I always knew better, or so I thought.

I had to laugh. That basically describes my ongoing work life, from my first job to my latest. I can do the work. I love my colleagues and clients. But boy do I hate having a boss. Even a great boss! I had wonderful parents and teachers growing up, with the exception of a few odd teachers, and yet I still didn't want them to dictate anything to me.

I remember one teacher in particular who had me wait after school one day. I think it was in the fifth grade. "You cannot correct my spelling when I'm writing on the board. That's disrespectful," she told me. "Yeah, but what if your spelling is wrong? Aren't we here to learn?" I replied.

Thankfully, I don't think, at 39, that I'm exactly who I was at three, at 13, and so on. I remember I used to have a major temper, to feel almost possessed by my anger. That doesn't seem true of me anymore. I remember I used to be incredibly fixated on my social standing at school, about how I was perceived by the cool kids, about whether or not I was an "insider," and if so, how inside was I, relative to my peers. I remember always wanting the girl I didn't have, that didn't like me "that way," rather than the one that did. I remember feeling pretty cynical. And I remember being incredibly insensitive to other people's feelings, in the way that only adolescent boys can be. (Okay, so there are some adolescent men who still have this failing. I'm pretty darn sure I'm not one of 'em.)

No, I'm not entirely the same guy now as I was growing up. I'm really not angry very often, and when I am it's incredibly short-lived, more like a sneeze than a boiling pot, to mix metaphors. I have almost no concern for my social standing or insider status. Who has time? I'm delighted with the girl I have, although truth be told she's very good at making me feel like I need to chase her from time to time. I'm a Pollyanna optimist on most things. And I seem to have discovered a capacity for compassion, equal parts empathy (on accounta I've actually been through a few things) and sympathy (because I realize I'm gonna go through a lot more).

Over the years I remember my mom saying more than once that she's loved being a kid, a teenager, a young adult, etc., but she wouldn't want to do it again. She's always been very happy to be the age she is, or so she's said. I was never sure whether I believed her.

Watching C.J. sit on the front steps and eat his rainbow push-up last night, the colors melting down on his hand and all over his soft face, him pausing only to smile in between licks, it was hard not to feel a little jealous of his youth and his joy. Why wouldn't I want to be a kid again?

And yet it became instantly clear to me: God and/or the Universe willing, C.J.'s uncomplicated joy in that moment is the same joy he will feel when he's 39, watching his son or daughter. And although he'll feel a tinge of jealousy watching his child, he won't want to trade the experience of being a parent, basking in the reflected joy across generations, for anything.

My mom is right sometimes, as much as it still pains me to admit it.