I was thinking about this on the way back home today, after having been passed by bikes going to and from the vanpool spot: I’m not going to be that guy who is an undiscovered cycling talent (I know I like to blame the bike, which has a creaky bottom bracket and all kinds of lardy weight hanging off it, not the least of which extends from nipple to belt on me), watching as some emphysemic geezer on a bike shakes a fist at me on his way past.
The boy, well, he’s not much of a talker yet. I say yet because it’s clear that he understands what we have to say (“Where’s your nose?” gets the right body part all the time, and he’ll willingly point to mommy’s nose, daddy’s nose, sister’s nose as prompted) but hasn’t felt the need to make himself known, choosing instead a complex combination of sign language and emphatic actions. Push food away and cry is a pretty good sign that he’s full, y’know? So without the need to talk, why talk, right?
So what I was thinking on the way back was that there’s no rush and we’ll get there when we get there (shades of The Incredibles). He’s unnaturally charming in a way I find difficult, willing to make his self into a whole-body exclamation point, a walking billboard of emotions in a way both vulnerable and unmistakeable. As much junk as you end up dealing with during the day it’s far more important to be able to come home and make silly dances until you both collapse in a heap of giggles.