I was elated to spend yesterday with our 17 month old grandson. I so admire his approach to life. He stands for a moment soaking things in – walks up to the thing most desired and with no societal constraints, reaches in and grabs hold.
In the case of the musical instrument basket, he pulls out the purple xylophone piano, “places” it on the carpet and plonks away with his one-fingered approach. Nearing full capacity, he reaches back into the basket and extracts a recorder – promptly puts it to mouth and blows, producing an appropriate high-pitched squeal. Flipping it over, he blows into the other end – silence. Broken. Move on.
The ball drawer. One at a time he frees each ball from its caged existence. Gramma deftly places an empty container nearby and tosses the first ball in. Grandson catches on, continuing Gramma’s charade. When done, he grabs hold the container handle and empties them back on the floor where they belong. Next!
Dad arrives early evening soon after both grands return from the library where dinosaurs, Duplos and disparate desires of like-minded and sized companions were successfully navigated. Gramma rummages through rooms collecting accoutrements. She notes to son that finally, for this once, all things had been successfully collected and packed up for home. No strays.
Ten minutes later, cellphone rings. “Hi Honey, what’s up?” “Do you have Eliot’s binky?”