I had my coffee and I've an observation to add to the positive;
I'm sitting at the computer. My two oldest are in school, but the three year old is home. Just as I'm formulating an idea, for a short story or post here, he asks me a question. He always asks me questions. I don't remember being asked this many questions. I can't even get the seat warm before having to get up again and find the missing door to the spacecraft, the figurine with the blue head, the TV turned on, the TV turned off, the TV turned to another station.
The only way to turn the kid's TV on is with a popcycle stick. The buttons are all broke and you have to push a small stick inside to do it. It's dangerous so I allow only myself to do it.
"Dad."
I hear it, but don't want to believe it. I just sat down. He has his juice. He has his shows. He has his games.
"What?" The sound carries down the steps to the basement.
"Dad."
"What??" I yell.
"Dad," he says softly. Now he's standing behind me.
"What?" I say again.
"Can you cleobn bla blas bla?"
His thumb is in his mouth. I can't understand him. He asks again. I can't make heads or tails out of it. He takes his thumb out. Very low and close together I can just make out the words now.
"How come you don't clean the Dragon Ball GT disk and the other Sponge Bob game?"
"Huh?"
"Clean the Dragon Ball GT disk, and the Sponge Bob disk." He says.
I've got him now. He'll have to find the disks. God help him, who knows where they are?
"Go downstairs and find the disks."
"Uh uh. Maybe they're on top of the computer."
There is a little pile on top of the computer. The whole area is a small mountain range of paper, toys, documents, khuks, flashilights, broken computers...everything. I don't think he has much chance. I seriously doubt the disks he's looking for just happen to be on top of the computer. There are a lot of projects in there, toys that need fixing and were brought to the Temple like an offering, but why should the disks be on top of the computer?
"OK." I look through the small stack of disks. Both of the disks he wanted are there.
"They're here," I tell him, "but the machine's broke."
"You can clean them with the spray bottle." He spoke matter of factly. He wasn't judging me. He wasn't frustrated. He just wanted the disks clean. How, I wonder, did he know about using the spray bottle without the machine?
I take the disks to the file cabinent, get the bottle out and spray each in turn before wiping gently with a cloth rag.
We walk down the steps together and I put the first disk in. It works. A little later he wants the second disk in. It works too.
Keith works the control handset very well. You wouldn't know he was three. I don't even think three is on the box as being possible. The little hand shouldn't be big enough for one thing.
It's true. Sometimes I get frustrated and weary of answering all the demands and I wish they'd stop asking so much. Sometimes it's about every 30 seconds. A bombardment. You can't think straight. It reminds me of working on the Psych Ward.
A warm feeling went into my chest as I marveled how smart he was in my America.
munk
