Haven picks up rocks and calls them boats. He carries them to bed and the market and Mass. Pushes them through carpets of waves and rivers. Names them. Hands me heavy handfuls. My pockets droop with crusty, cementy "boats."
I walk through rooms and up the stairs swearing under my breath as I step on sharp, hard -- you guessed it -- rocks. But they're really boats. And we have at least 100 of them now.
Don't think it hasn't dawned on me when Haven says, "Ooh, this will be a good one to take in the bath." That these boats won't float. Nope. Cause. They're rocks. But I haven't had the heart.
Then our playmate Ethan stopped by today, observed the boats and said, "But Haven, those boats won't float."
"They're rock boats. They will sink. They're sinking boats. They are boats that won't float."
Haven stared at him in disbelief. I held my breath. A little later Ethan went home.
As I made dinner, Haven gathered up his boats where he likes them best -- sliding and gliding on the kitchen table. They clattered and scattered as he made splashing noises, blew wind through their sails and talked about taking them fishing.
2 comments:
Just yesterday, I was remarking to Mom on what a strange, little boy Haven is, and I was full of admiration. He's bright and kooky and fun. Millie loads our house full of rocks, too, though she just calls them "treasure rocks," not boats, and I've reached the mean point at which I make her keep almost every last one outside.
Mean. MEAN!
I love that you fondly call Haven "Strange." I fondly call him "wierd" almost everyday. I've been meaning to write a post entitled "My kid is wierd." one day.
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