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When It's Too Quiet

The three of us were chattering about this and that, when I scootched to the edge of the couch.  “You hear that?” I asked.  And my husband and daughter perked their ears for a second.  Silence.  “Great,” I muttered.   And my husband confirmed, “not good.”  Somewhere with a multitude of markers or a pile of nails or a pair of scissors in each hand our unsupervised three year old was livin’ it up.  We were sure of it.

My daughter’s eyes got bigger, as she began understanding the depth of our concern. “I’ll go check,” she whispered.  And my husband and I sat quietly waiting for the detailed damage report. 

But she stopped almost as soon as she started.  “You guys have gotta see this,” she half-laughed. And while my husband rose to join her, she added tenderly, “he’s so cute.”

Now the three us were hovering in the hallway, staring down at a little boy who’d tucked himself up in his train blanket like a bowling ball, his head leaning on the bottom stair.   His eyes blinked slowly, looking up at each of us without ever moving his head. 

Then as I knelt to stroke his blanketed body, he spoke through his binky, “will you cawwy me, mommy?”

And though I was putty, I would.  Cawwy him, that is.

Anywhere he wanted to go.


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