He can’t hold a pencil or point to an object or open a bag or roll a toy car or unwrap a present or carry a knapsack or brush his teeth or feed himself with a spoon or wipe his mouth with a napkin or push a grocery cart by himself. He can’t pour himself a drink or drink from an open cup or take a bite out of a sandwich. He can’t put on his glasses or page through a book or carry an object or set down his sippy cup or hold a cookie or pet Rudy the dog or wash his hands or use the toilet or sit safely in a chair.
And he’s nine.
He can’t blow a whistle or throw a ball or sit in a wagon or fly a kite or launch a balsa wood airplane or build a lego house or work on a puzzle or fold a paper plane or roll a pair of dice or play a toy piano or chalk up a sidewalk or collect shells on the beach or pump a swing with his legs or count the cards in a deck.
And he’s nine.
He can’t walk by himself or dance a jig or hum a tune or take a shower or sleep in an open bed or pull up his pants or tie his shoes or play a sport or swim a lap or ride a bike or jump a rope or kick a ball or run through a sprinkler or wade in the ocean or skip rocks in a lake or stick his tongue out to lick an ice cream cone or climb a tree or chew a stick of gum or pick berries by the roadside or write a story or play with any toy appropriately, beyond a baby's rattle.
And he’s nine.
He can’t tell me that his throat is sore or that his ear hurts or that he has a headache or a cramp or a growing pain or that he’s nauseous because of the medicine or that he’s too hot or too cold or sad or frustrated or dizzy or hungry or thirsty or tired or bored or scared. He can’t tell me his tooth is about to come out or that he has a splinter or that he stubbed his toe or bit his tongue or that his shoes are too tight or his diaper is too wet or that he had a bad dream or that he’s about to have a seizure.
And he’s nine.
He can’t wish on a star or blow out a candle or tell me a secret or ask his dad why the sky is blue or pick a flower or describe what he sees in the clouds or ask me why I'm sad or tell us what he wants to be when he grows up or what his favorite color is or what he did in class or who he’s smitten with at school.
And he’s nine.
But he can sign for the word hug and he can hug for hours and his smile is like a handful of diamonds and his skin is of rose petals and his giggles fill me with joy and he doesn’t have a malicious bone in his body and he is pleased by the simplest of things and he wants for almost nothing and he doesn't get mad and he endures so much pain and he doesn't know greed or envy or hate and he lives in the moment and sometimes he looks into my eyes and I know that he loves us without saying a word.
Yes, Calvin is nine. And he is different, though not less.
And he’s nine.
He can’t blow a whistle or throw a ball or sit in a wagon or fly a kite or launch a balsa wood airplane or build a lego house or work on a puzzle or fold a paper plane or roll a pair of dice or play a toy piano or chalk up a sidewalk or collect shells on the beach or pump a swing with his legs or count the cards in a deck.
And he’s nine.
He can’t walk by himself or dance a jig or hum a tune or take a shower or sleep in an open bed or pull up his pants or tie his shoes or play a sport or swim a lap or ride a bike or jump a rope or kick a ball or run through a sprinkler or wade in the ocean or skip rocks in a lake or stick his tongue out to lick an ice cream cone or climb a tree or chew a stick of gum or pick berries by the roadside or write a story or play with any toy appropriately, beyond a baby's rattle.
And he’s nine.
He can’t tell me that his throat is sore or that his ear hurts or that he has a headache or a cramp or a growing pain or that he’s nauseous because of the medicine or that he’s too hot or too cold or sad or frustrated or dizzy or hungry or thirsty or tired or bored or scared. He can’t tell me his tooth is about to come out or that he has a splinter or that he stubbed his toe or bit his tongue or that his shoes are too tight or his diaper is too wet or that he had a bad dream or that he’s about to have a seizure.
And he’s nine.
He can’t wish on a star or blow out a candle or tell me a secret or ask his dad why the sky is blue or pick a flower or describe what he sees in the clouds or ask me why I'm sad or tell us what he wants to be when he grows up or what his favorite color is or what he did in class or who he’s smitten with at school.
And he’s nine.
But he can sign for the word hug and he can hug for hours and his smile is like a handful of diamonds and his skin is of rose petals and his giggles fill me with joy and he doesn’t have a malicious bone in his body and he is pleased by the simplest of things and he wants for almost nothing and he doesn't get mad and he endures so much pain and he doesn't know greed or envy or hate and he lives in the moment and sometimes he looks into my eyes and I know that he loves us without saying a word.
Yes, Calvin is nine. And he is different, though not less.
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| photo by Connie Kolster |
You've outdone yourself here, missy. I love it, him, you, Michael. All your beauty shows through in that photo -- all of it.
ReplyDeleteThose are such important things in your last paragraph....and often they are missing even when the others are there. We value them, and think yu are very wise, Christy.
ReplyDelete