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The Law of Attraction

Sometime in October I brought down our bag of magnets and steel balls from its safe place and poured them out for our kids to build with.  I didn’t bother thinking of what I’d do if my son gulped one down.  I just watched them play.  And what happened was this:  The place got quiet.  My son linked all his pieces in a color coordinated train that wound around the living room.  Or make that a colorful straight line.  And my daughter started connecting her magnets upward until she had an unknown three-dimensional shape–one her brother immediately loved and asked if he could crush.

Only now it’s December and the interest in these magnets hasn’t waned.  The only person remotely exhausted by them is me.  But that is directly defined by the number of times I’ve found a few strays in the pantry behind a can of diced tomatoes and the number of ones I’ve heard clunk up the vacuum cleaner.  That I can see one beside a paint can from where I’m sitting doesn’t surprise me.  But, uh,the paint can probably should.

Here are my son’s tiny pyramids, the ones his sister taught him to make.

Here is also what magnets and steel balls look like scattered in four hundred directions.  Uh, speaking conservatively.

Here’s another view at my son’s pyramids looking like a map of a campground with same-size tents.

And here is my daughter’s pyramid, the one her brother desperately wants to touch.  And poke.  And smash.

Only after her eleventh escalated ‘no’ as she guarded the thing with her shoulder, did she finally concede that he could touch, “right here.”

And so he patted her arm while she worked.

Until the Law of Attraction became too much for him, and he realized that he must touch her pyramid.

Or he must inconspicuously try.

And try again.

No matter the means.



But you probably know what that looks like.


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