My grandson Lyric is an amicable kid for a two-year-old. We can take him into most public places and still be welcomed back when we leave. He doesn't play "musical chairs" like some of the other children at the dentist office. He claims a spot and dares anyone else to try to sit there.
He tries to share the communal crayons by dumping the bucket in the center of the bright red octagonal table. The other moms tsk tsk him. Older children help him clear the mess.
Some of the other kids have coloring papers with Dr. Suess characters on them. I have no idea where they got them, so I tear out a few sheets of notebook paper for Lyric. Then, I feel obligated to share with little forlorn Josie in the next chair who also has no paper. Her face brightens when I hand her two crisp sheets. She chooses a stubby yellow crayon and gets to work.
Baby Adrian is circling the table, slipping between chairs and reaching over the edge toward the crayon bucket. The tip of his tongue peeks out of the corner of his mouth. Just when he nearly...just about...almost touches the bucket, somebody moves it away. This happens a couple of times, and while it is amusing me, it is frustrating Adrian. The other children are unaware of his artistic desires. He toddles away to tattle to his mother. She is in deep conversation with one of the other moms. His one-year-old tongue cannot form the words he wants her to hear. She scoops him up and plants a kiss on his fat cheek. He deems this an acceptable alternative to the art table. He pokes a thumb in his mouth and cuddles against her. He watches the other children drawing on their papers, but to me, it seems he is plotting their individual downfalls.
My grandson has created a masterpiece of accidental triangles and circles and deliberate squiggles. He holds it up for us to see. We give it a thumbs up.
He is left-handed, just like me. One of the older children tries to get him to draw with his right hand. He gets mad and growls at her, just like me.
Eventually, he is called into one of those unseen rooms to be poked and prodded by all manner of torture devices. I smile and wave at him as my daughter hauls him away. He does not go quietly.
I'm left in the noisy waiting room with the table full of papers and crayons and Josie and Baby Adrian.
I take out my notebook and begin to write.
He tries to share the communal crayons by dumping the bucket in the center of the bright red octagonal table. The other moms tsk tsk him. Older children help him clear the mess.
Some of the other kids have coloring papers with Dr. Suess characters on them. I have no idea where they got them, so I tear out a few sheets of notebook paper for Lyric. Then, I feel obligated to share with little forlorn Josie in the next chair who also has no paper. Her face brightens when I hand her two crisp sheets. She chooses a stubby yellow crayon and gets to work.
Baby Adrian is circling the table, slipping between chairs and reaching over the edge toward the crayon bucket. The tip of his tongue peeks out of the corner of his mouth. Just when he nearly...just about...almost touches the bucket, somebody moves it away. This happens a couple of times, and while it is amusing me, it is frustrating Adrian. The other children are unaware of his artistic desires. He toddles away to tattle to his mother. She is in deep conversation with one of the other moms. His one-year-old tongue cannot form the words he wants her to hear. She scoops him up and plants a kiss on his fat cheek. He deems this an acceptable alternative to the art table. He pokes a thumb in his mouth and cuddles against her. He watches the other children drawing on their papers, but to me, it seems he is plotting their individual downfalls.
My grandson has created a masterpiece of accidental triangles and circles and deliberate squiggles. He holds it up for us to see. We give it a thumbs up.
He is left-handed, just like me. One of the older children tries to get him to draw with his right hand. He gets mad and growls at her, just like me.
Eventually, he is called into one of those unseen rooms to be poked and prodded by all manner of torture devices. I smile and wave at him as my daughter hauls him away. He does not go quietly.
I'm left in the noisy waiting room with the table full of papers and crayons and Josie and Baby Adrian.
I take out my notebook and begin to write.
