My youngest grandson is lucky he’s so cute — and reminds me of me 

He’s lucky he’s so cute.

That’s what we say when the 27-month-old has decided nighttime is best for crying. For cuddling. For demanding to be held in case the scaries return.

He’s lucky he’s so cute.

That’s what we tell each other when he sits in his chair, eyes hard, mouth tight.

“He’s on a hunger strike,” his eldest sister explains, with a knowing sigh. “You might as well forget it. He’s not going to give in and eat.”

The youngest of my grandchildren has the face of an angel and the smile of a Don Juan. His laughter is like bells in the morning. Few things are more fascinating — to me at least — than watching him play with his Matchbox cars. And when he runs to the front door to greet me, I melt into a do-what-you-want-with-me mess. Nothing surpasses that sense of undiluted joy when his arms encircle my knees.

But heavens, that child is stubborn. Sweetly stubborn, true, quietly persistent, yes — yet headstrong, nonetheless.

His age doesn’t ease the situation, either. There’s a good reason this developmental stage has been labeled the “terrible twos.” As he fights for independence and forges his own identity, “no” has turned out to be one of his favorite words. He uses it liberally and with great zest, often for no obvious reason.

Of course, it’s not just the essentials of food and sleep that bear the brunt of his iron will. When he races his collection of cars, he doesn’t give up if an unforeseen obstacle — a chair, a table leg, a sister’s foot — blocks his effort. He barrels forward. In fact, he seems undaunted about many stumbling blocks, pushing, pushing, pushing.

He takes after his paternal grandmother. My parents lamented and complimented (sometimes simultaneously) my doggedness. However, I’m hardly alone in my persistence. It’s a family trait, expressed in varying degrees over the generations. Quite a few other family members are known to be single-minded, and the behavior of a few even borders on the obsessive.

Turns out, my sweet toddler may have pitbullishness in spades, and it will likely prove to be both boon and bane. Literature is rife with examples of this, but I also know about such matters from personal experience.

I’ve learned, though. I’ve learned the hard way. Now, when I cling to what I should let go, I ease the surrender by humming one of my favorite Kenny Rogers songs. There’s a good reason why the lyrics in “The Gambler” have endured so many decades:

You got to know when to hold ’em

Know when to fold ’em

Know when to walk away

And know when to run

Spotting pieces of ourselves in our children and grandchildren is an exercise in hope. It fills us with awe and, let’s be frank here, a good deal of pride as well. When we recognize the shape of a chin, the curve of a smile, or the line of a nose in a beloved’s face, we’re reminded that we will live on long after we’re dead. We’re linked to those who came before and those who will come after, an endless chain. (For instance, now when I look in the mirror, I can’t help but see my late father’s eyes staring back at me.)

It takes a little more time to identify the personality quirks that are passed along in the same way dimples or a widow’s peak are inherited. But they’re there just the same, waiting to be expressed at the right moment.

My young grandson is coming into a trait that has so defined my life. Watching him can be both funny and alarming. I only hope that he learns sooner than I did when to hold ’em and when to fold ’em.

Ana Veciana-Suarez writes about family and social issues. Email her at avecianasuarez@gmail.com or visit her website anavecianasuarez.com. Follow @AnaVeciana.