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“What if every tow truck ran out of gas?”
“How do bodies get to heaven after they’ve been buried?”
“‘Si usted está contento y usted sabe que aplaudas! That means, ‘If you’re happy and you know it clap you hands!”
It’s not unusual for a period of 15 minutes with Squirts to follow this or some similar line of conversation. Sometimes, it’s like trying to chase popcorn. Just when you think you know where a topic is headed…pop, we’re off in another direction.
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Watching Squirts throw a ball – or anything else – is like watching a physics experiment in kinetic energy. The act of launching the object from his hand involves some aspect of every visible part of his body. As his right hand pulls back with the ball, his left arm juts out with a fist curled under. His tongue sticks out in one direction or another, often giving away the final destination of the object in question. His eyes either squeeze shut or bulge open. And at the last moment his left leg lifts and swings in an awkward arch in an attempt to make the ball fly as far as possible.
If he could raise both legs at the same time, he’d probably give it a shot.
Around the time Squirts turned three, he moved from one class at his day care into another one. It was a traumatic experience for all three of us. And it was no short-term trauma either. It was the kind of trauma that lasted almost every day for the majority of the next year-and-a-half and followed us to his next two classes.
After that move, the drop-off routine involved some level of whining, crying, clinging, wailing or whimpering. Every day. For. One. Year. And. A. Half.
