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Today's Squeakerlesson...
Oct. 29th, 2005 10:16 amPockets Mean Responsibility.
Some days I wonder how in the world I managed to breed as fiesty and uncontainable a little human as my Dae is. Really. I was a sedate child--you could put me on my blanket with my toys and tell me not to move, and I wouldn't. Him? He'll give you a wide eyed "'Course!" and sit still till you're out of reach... Then bolt, giggling, leaving a wake of toys and cracker crumbs behind him.
This morning, he was determined to have a cell phone. Grammie has a cell phone. He wants a cell phone. But not this sparkley useless thing--all it does is beep when you hit buttons. He wants one that'll dial out.
(and we'll not tell him that all he has to do to get *his* to dial out is touch the 9 once and the 1 twice, sweet gods, no...)
So Grammie has relented and handed him her phone. Turned off, of course, so it doesn't even light up like the deactivated one. But it's hers. It's "real". So he's hyperfocused, studying it while she's trying to chivvy him out the door.
"Squeaker," I say, bending down to him. "Here. You have pockets today."
I gently take the phone out of his hand and tuck it into the chest pocket of his little plaid shirt (My God, my son, the preppie...~shudder~) "Remember: pockets mean responsibility. You can keep this, but you have to take good care of it and leave it in your pocket, so it's safe, okay? It's important. Pockets mean responsibility. Okay?"
My little man holds his chin up and tucks his arm around the phone in his pocket (so its weight doesn't tip it out). "Okay."
"Okay. Now come on, let's get you in your chair in the car so you can go to town with Grammie."
And out he walks, one hand in Grammie's to go down the porch steps, one hand holding the phone in his pocket.
Because he has pockets today.
And pockets mean responsibility.
Some days I wonder how in the world I managed to breed as fiesty and uncontainable a little human as my Dae is. Really. I was a sedate child--you could put me on my blanket with my toys and tell me not to move, and I wouldn't. Him? He'll give you a wide eyed "'Course!" and sit still till you're out of reach... Then bolt, giggling, leaving a wake of toys and cracker crumbs behind him.
This morning, he was determined to have a cell phone. Grammie has a cell phone. He wants a cell phone. But not this sparkley useless thing--all it does is beep when you hit buttons. He wants one that'll dial out.
(and we'll not tell him that all he has to do to get *his* to dial out is touch the 9 once and the 1 twice, sweet gods, no...)
So Grammie has relented and handed him her phone. Turned off, of course, so it doesn't even light up like the deactivated one. But it's hers. It's "real". So he's hyperfocused, studying it while she's trying to chivvy him out the door.
"Squeaker," I say, bending down to him. "Here. You have pockets today."
I gently take the phone out of his hand and tuck it into the chest pocket of his little plaid shirt (My God, my son, the preppie...~shudder~) "Remember: pockets mean responsibility. You can keep this, but you have to take good care of it and leave it in your pocket, so it's safe, okay? It's important. Pockets mean responsibility. Okay?"
My little man holds his chin up and tucks his arm around the phone in his pocket (so its weight doesn't tip it out). "Okay."
"Okay. Now come on, let's get you in your chair in the car so you can go to town with Grammie."
And out he walks, one hand in Grammie's to go down the porch steps, one hand holding the phone in his pocket.
Because he has pockets today.
And pockets mean responsibility.
