Tuesday, March 25, 2008
In bed, Rye was restless.
As usual, I was laying, my legs bent and my neck wrenched so I could halfway fit in the toddler-sized VW car bed, next to him for "a little bit," which usually amounts to about 10 minutes.
Sometimes, he's quiet almost right away. Other times, he remembers bits of his day or pretends the toy he just had to take to bed with him is driving up my arm or stabbing me in the face (he's on a Star Wars kick, remember?).
Last night, he softly but firmly planted his hands on my face and turned my head toward his. His eyes were big. "Remember 'Beauty and the Beast'?" he said.
Yes, I do, I answered. I picked it up at a thrift store recently, and we watched it tonight.
A few minutes later, he said, "Is this a thumb?"
I opened my eyes and saw him pointing to his right index finger.
No, I said. This is your thumb, and I showed him on each hand.
Then, of course, he wanted to know the name for what he had originally thought was his thumb. Pointer finger, I said, and we went down the row. Middle finger. Ring finger. Pinkies! (For some reason, pinkies get an exclamation point.)
Rye giggled at his pinkies and then asked me to show him mine.
And then I watched quietly as he looked at his fingers, moving them. I knew he was silently repeating the words that described them, the terms he'd just learned.
And then I kissed him, pulled the covers up a little higher and said goodnight.
This was one of those simple, beautiful moments that are too often easily forgotten.