The big guy, Michael, age 18 monthsSo, I’ve been sick and it’s Memorial Day so it must be a good time for a story about something I remember happening when I was sick back when the big guy was little (though, even that is relative—he was 2.5 feet tall when he was 7 mos old). I was down with a virus, the main symptom of which was complete and utter fatigue. I wasn’t coughing, I wasn’t sneezing, there might have been a fever for a few days, but mostly it was simply the inability to lever myself out of bed to do just about anything. After the better part of a week of this, I finally felt enough better to go grocery shopping. Once home, the only groceries I had the energy to put away were the perishables. The rest were left in their brown paper bags on the living room floor where I could stare at them from where I sat slumped in a chair in front of the TV set.
The big guy was 18 mos old and, sadly for him, he had suffered a fairly serious injury the week prior when he surprised me by opening the bathroom door where I had left a hot curling iron on the edge of the tub when I ran to answer the phone. He was darn curious and his pursuant scream was darn loud. He burned the whole palm of his hand and he had spent the days since with his hand in a bulky bandage. He was very chipper about the whole thing, never complained, mostly because he still couldn’t really talk at this age. He didn’t walk, either, but he was a pretty good crawler, except, now, it was a bit uneven since he had to use his wrist instead of his hand to navigate, what with the bulky bandage and all.
The big guy was 18 mos old and, sadly for him, he had suffered a fairly serious injury the week prior when he surprised me by opening the bathroom door where I had left a hot curling iron on the edge of the tub when I ran to answer the phone. He was darn curious and his pursuant scream was darn loud. He burned the whole palm of his hand and he had spent the days since with his hand in a bulky bandage. He was very chipper about the whole thing, never complained, mostly because he still couldn’t really talk at this age. He didn’t walk, either, but he was a pretty good crawler, except, now, it was a bit uneven since he had to use his wrist instead of his hand to navigate, what with the bulky bandage and all.
Michael about 1 year oldAnd, yes, I know that is a fairly late age to still not be walking and talking. Our big guy has some problems, however, he is not stupid and what happened next in my story is how I know just how smart the big guy was. Is. You know what I mean.
From my sprawled position on the recliner, I spotted him, in my fatigued and brainless way, playing amongst the bags of groceries. After four or five hours of pure contentment, he began to seem a bit agitated. In the still-functioning corner of my mind, I realized he must be getting hungry but I simply didn’t have the wherewithal to move. Then I noticed that he was pawing through the grocery bags, one by one, doing his one handed crawl from one bag to the next, digging through them, clearly looking for something. After a minute or two of this, I spotted him high-tailing it down the hallway to his room. I have to admit I felt a bit relieved that I wasn’t expected to do anything.
From my sprawled position on the recliner, I spotted him, in my fatigued and brainless way, playing amongst the bags of groceries. After four or five hours of pure contentment, he began to seem a bit agitated. In the still-functioning corner of my mind, I realized he must be getting hungry but I simply didn’t have the wherewithal to move. Then I noticed that he was pawing through the grocery bags, one by one, doing his one handed crawl from one bag to the next, digging through them, clearly looking for something. After a minute or two of this, I spotted him high-tailing it down the hallway to his room. I have to admit I felt a bit relieved that I wasn’t expected to do anything.
The Red Bucket and Bandaged HandThen, suddenly he reappeared with his red Tupperware bucket. The bucket had to be carried in his good hand, which he flipped up and down, up and down, as he made his ungainly way back to the grocery bags. He did a bit more rummaging and emerged from a bag with a jar of baby food (yes, he still ate baby food—bananas were his favorite) which he then dropped into the bucket. Making a beeline for me, he flipped that bucket with that jar of baby food as he came. Slumped far down into the chair as I was, his face disappeared for a moment at the base of the recliner but I had a full frontal view of the bucket as it landed squarely in my lap. Rising behind it, a glorious smile of triumph on his fat little face, was Michael. Then he plucked the jar of food—bananas, of course—from the bucket and handed it to me. He was a great problem solver—still is—but he couldn’t quite manage removing the lid on his own, even with two good hands.
The funny thing is, I don’t remember feeling a bit sick after that moment. I was just so happy and excited that my 18 month old who couldn’t speak intelligibly, who couldn’t walk and hadn’t even been crawling for long, could work out and solve a problem in such a clever and knowing way. He KNEW he had done something pretty special and he knew I knew it. Once again, Michael, you’re the man!
The funny thing is, I don’t remember feeling a bit sick after that moment. I was just so happy and excited that my 18 month old who couldn’t speak intelligibly, who couldn’t walk and hadn’t even been crawling for long, could work out and solve a problem in such a clever and knowing way. He KNEW he had done something pretty special and he knew I knew it. Once again, Michael, you’re the man!
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