lingering descant

Mom, I gotta tell ya something. There’s three kinds of Os. One in the ABCs, one in the numbers, and one in the shapes.

I hear I gotta tell ya something at least ninety two times a day.  He wants to learn how to tie his shoes and how to ride a bike, and he wants to teach me EVERYTHING HE KNOWS.

Last summer, after he schooled her on tree frogs, a neighbor nicknamed Tuck The Professor.

Yesterday in the car, having seen a minor accident pulled off the side of the highway, he gave us a lesson on fixing flat tires and how the police can help and why it's good to have auto insurance.  Passion trumps accuracy at his age, doesn't it?

He tends to create a sense of hyperbole whenever possible -- his narratives always include elements of the biggest, most amazing, fastest and more dangerous than ever.

After preschool this morning he told us about chasing girls in the rumpus room and about creating a business called Bandaid Solutions with his partner Augie and about planting nasturtium seeds for Earth Day.

His stories are always elaborate and sustained, including pertinent facts as well as minute details, and even more minute ones.

Walking around the block before dinner tonight, pointing at laurel sprouts and peering in wet drain holes, he left a trail of words as long as a country mile.  One foot in front of the other on the cement, he was talking about… WAIT, what was he talking about?

His eyes shone bright and I got distracted, wondering whether he might be a genius or whether he could be nuts.  I think he was lecturing on batteries, which led to an aside about fruit trees and then bumble bees and stop signs...

I realigned my listening posture, asked leading questions in a cheerful tone, grateful for all his words.  He finished speaking and walked quietly the rest of the way home.  Even when he's not talking, I can almost hear his thoughts traveling upward.