I know that’s a rather strong statement. But HE is a rather strong statement.
He's still a small child too, with bruised shins and coming and going teeth and exposed nerves.
Carrying a fistful of trading cards and a brain full of big ideas, he speaks with the speed of an auctioneer and the confidence of a stockbroker.
And then the next minute he's behaving with the sensitivities of a Jane Austen character, brooding and angsty, a quivering mass of insecurity.
With him, stepping from an idea to its execution can be like stepping into a canoe. A lot of things can go wrong. The way an illustration should look, the way breakfast should or should not have butter, the way the weekend ought to go.
He hates church clothes more than a three year old hates mittens. Last week, before we entered the sanctuary, someone noticed that he might've dressed himself. I'm not sure whether it was the camouflage shorts or the tennis shoes that gave it away.
Sometimes his energy is focused on proving he’s right, often even resisting what’s in his best interest.
Sometimes he is right.
After school one day recently he was in tears because although he asked the classmate to stop, someone on the playground had been continually calling him freckle face. And/or chicken pox.
I try to remind myself, as Tollie gets older and bumps into unkind people (and into the meaner parts of himself) that his prefrontal cortex isn't even connected to the rest of his brain yet. He needs our help sorting this stuff out. He's not really as big as he looks.
But he is so capable.
He is usually very busy, always drawing, stapling, cutting stuff up, always taping and gluing, always making a book. Always rearranging his bedside and counting his dollars and organizing his collections. Always brushing his teeth and choosing his outfit, and practicing his recital piece without being reminded.
He is responsible and creative and hilarious and inquisitive and energetic and friendly.
To Andy, after work: Have you ever had a patient with a fork or a knife sticking out of their eye?
Outside, noticing spring: All the chlorophyll came back!
Random: What if Mary didn't listen to the angels and just named the baby something like Ichabod?
In the car, driving past donuts: Can we have Team Hortons?
Talking with a friend on the walk to school, about a statue carved at Mammoth Cave, out of, Wait it's not lemonstone, what is it called? Limestone!
1 comment:
And he has a lot of teaching skills too! Last Saturday, between lunch and photography, he taught me how to play Trash. Have you talked with the boys about being a pine tree? (Thank you, Dorothy Corkille Briggs)
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