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The Quantifier

I was not there this time to witness the poop–the Lord had mercy–but I was there to hear about it.  By which time my son showed me with arms spread from east to west just how much he’d pooped.  “Bigger than grandma’s house,” he added. 

And the visual was complete.

In the kitchen I’d asked my son if he’d wanted a little cereal.  Only he hadn’t.  He’d wanted, “this much.”  Which was when he spread the same arms their maximum width and nodded in case I wasn’t catching his drift.

But I was catching it.

When we’d caught a glimpse of that giant orb that’s shining anywhere but here right now, I’d rhetorically asked, “don’t you just love the sun?”  “No,” my son answered seriously.  “I like ice cream.” Then with a right arm that stretched across his sister’s face, he added, ” A lot of ice cream.”

That one of my son’s arms would wrap around his sister’s back as the two of them danced beside the ice cream maker–and that both of his arms would hug my waist as his bottom lip quivered over the verdict that he had to eat his sandwich first–that these arms–these ‘into everything’ arms–could express his heart’s desires was the reason I held my son close.  I couldn’t help it.

By which time from where I knelt my son shot an arm upward above my head and shouted, “I’m taller than you!”

And I suppose for that moment he was.  A tiny bit taller. 

And, well…that’s what mattered.


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