Silas is (still) golden (but he's becoming more like us every day)
My father called me today to report on a report he’d gotten from his town’s librarian about my son.
The Other Mother, you see, takes the boy to that library on Wednesdays for story time.
“He used to be so quiet. So shy,” she laughed as my dad probably sniggered silently (and uncontrollably) before emitting the short blast of “HA!” -- a laugh trait I never really noticed before my son inherited it from him.
“Now it is pretty clear he has an opinion about everything and he’s not afraid to share it.”
Like when he storms clear across the room to lay his random thoughts* on some kid patiently waiting for the craft table to open up:
“MY MOM IS WORKING!”
He gets THAT from me … There’s a reason why I’m suddenly talking about the cat while discussing the disappearance of the yellow and blue winter coat Ittybit handed down to The Champ.
“Oh, glad you found it. Yes, yes. I was wondering what happened to his coat. … That stupid cat!”
*It’s not really random. I blame her for its vanishing.
It is true that my son’s communicative skills are blossoming with such speed I think it’s forcing him to stutter:
“My-my-my-my dad is working,” he says with a smile, pointing as we pass the garbage hauler. “He-He-He-He drives that truck.”
The glint in his eye reflects the little devil inside.
Not to mention the slight tinge Eddie Haskleism he shares with his sister.
“He was so cute, today,” continues the librarian. “A little girl started crying and he went over and put his arm around her. ‘It’s ok, It’s OK’ he said.”
I could hear my dad’s pride swell.
“Yeah, but what she doesn’t know is that he spent the morning trying to balance things on her head while she screamed for him to stop.”
Sweet, adorable, amenable Silas, who quietly goes about doing whatever it is he wants to three feet below the rest of the world.
He’s already figured out we’ll blame the cat.
“MOM! RAT!!!” screamed Annabel this morning minutes before we were to leave the house.
“Wha ….?” I stammer as I tug my attention away from trying to pull both of the boys lower limbs out of his left pant leg.
I hulk over to the place she’s jumped three feet from, where she found what appeared to be (from my viewing of it) the headless, tailless torso of a squirrel wedged between the cushions of the chair.
I jump back. "That's no rat."
My mind races with squirrel-like precision: Wha? Oh my g… I don’t want to touch … How am I … Cat. Outside. Call Jed … double bag my hands? What kind of sick, twisted pet hides their kills in a chair? What do I do … the body? Uh .... CAAAAAAAAAAAAT!
After pacing back and forth, I find plastic bags and make my approach. I peel away the cushion and the thing flops lightly onto the seat.
Light and airy like. ... Just as if it were the last crust of olive bread the boy begged for the previous night.
When he was sitting in that chair.
I turn around to see his squinty eyed, twisted mouth expression looking right at me.