Friday morning. A very quiet back seat. “David, are you awake?” If any reply is forthcoming, it’s likely to be a slow and quiet “Yeah.” The unexpected reply: “I’m napping, so I can’t talk.”
Friday morning. Waiting on line at LL Bean, there are lots of bins of stuffed animals. As we pass each bin, David pulls out an animal for me and an animal for him and starts a role-play conversation. Each time we shuffle forward a few feet, David puts our animals away and chooses a new pair.
Friday after lunch. The playspace at the local mall. David has decided that without any older kids around, he needs to be the older kid. He learns to vault into the fiberglass boat, and alternates between doing that and running around whooping. Nailed it.
Friday afternoon. Dropping off packages of books at the post office. David waits patiently on line with me, holding one of the packages, complying with the holy silence of this grown-up rite. Waiting on line at the post office demands a far greater silence than libraries and religious ceremonies. When it’s our turn, he brings his package up to the counter, slides it towards the clerk, and turns away, continuing his monastic silence.
Friday evening. A friend comes over for dinner. As we light the candles and sing the blessing, David joins in for the first time, getting many of the syllables right.
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