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February 15, 2006
My Son, the Hit Man
At the park, Ford helped himself to another child's sand toys while I was spotting Chas on the gym. I watched him engineer his play and block out the rest of the world, as I often try to do when I'm, say, typing on my laptop. So serious! I stood there smiling at him.
The other child's mother, when I glanced up at her face, was smiling down on him also. Then she bent down to hand Ford a shovel.
"What's your name?"
"That's not important." he responded, like a calculator.
Posted by Steph at February 15, 2006 05:54 AM
Comments
Where does he come up with this stuff? I love it!
Posted by: M.E. Quarles at February 15, 2006 02:28 PM
From my observations---He has absolutely no one in this world whom he feels he has to impress to feel good about himself. It is his rock-solid sense of self--the vocabulary of a college grad, and a repertoire of defense mechanisms similar to a rattle snake to maintain his position.
Posted by: Grandma at February 16, 2006 01:50 PM