Wednesday, November 01, 2006


Wednesday morning: the beginning of the end of our school week. I'm chirping to Carter about the month of November and the cool, crisp morning air while he's buckling himself into the car for the trek north. We drive away from the house and I offer up some tunes: the Curious George soundtrack, perhaps? This meets with his approval, and I start to wax rhapsodic about music and the way it makes us feel when, from the backseat comes the plea:

"Let's be quiet."

This is a frequent request, and I have to admit that it stings a little. No surprise to anyone reading this: I love to talk. I'll prattle on about anything to anyone who'll listen. Somewhere along the line my kid realized that he actually didn't have to listen. That if he asked (nicely: I did insist on that), then I would respect his need for silence and keep my mouth shut for at least 45 consecutive seconds, all the while wondering: what's he thinking? Am I making him crazy already? Should we start funneling his college savings into an account dedicated to the years of therapy he'll need as a result of my poor parenting?

So, my mind commences to running wild as I observe my forced vow of silence when I hear a big sigh, and then:

"Just breathe, Mommy."

"What's that, Carter?"

"Just take a deep breath."

So I do. And it feels good. And my mind quiets, if only for a minute. And I say, "Thank you, Carter. That was really nice."

"Now take three big breaths. Doesn't that feel better?"

And I do, and it does, and we're both laughing now.

Maybe he's a genius. Some wunderkind of intuition and perspective. Maybe that Yoga Kids DVD I bought over the summer really made an impression on him. Or maybe he just wanted to enjoy the lyrical musings of Jack Johnson without interruption or analysis.

Doesn't matter what he is, does or says: I love that little guy.

Post script: on the way home from school, my boy genius thought it would be funny to poke a large hole in the side of a styrofoam cup that had just been filled with strawberry smoothie. So I used my thumb to stem the tide of icy pink goo, like the little Dutch boy, whilst safely steering my Swedish wagon home.

As we pulled into the driveway, the cup collapsed and its melted contents gushed into my lap.

I love that little guy, even when he drives me up the wall.


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