"Watch me, Mom," says my son, a hundred times a day or more. This isn’t the typical four-year-old’s "Look what I can do!"—what he means is Look at me because I want to tell you something. He doesn’t grasp that I am not hard of hearing; I don’t need to watch his lips move to be sure of what he is saying. He needs to see my face to "hear" me best, and naturally he assumes the reciprocal is true.
If I don’t turn quickly enough, he takes hold of my chin with one firm little hand, turning my face toward his. Yanking it, sometimes. Wookit me, Mom.
He is cuter than ever to wookit these days, thanks to the spiffy new glasses he is sporting.
Sometimes I spike up his hair so he looks like the kid from Jerry Maguire. This makes me laugh. I glance at him in my rear-view mirror and expect him to ask me if I know the human head weighs eight pounds.
When I went to put the glasses on him the first morning, he wasn’t at all sure he was on board with this plan. Then Scott put on his glasses—I wear contacts, so Scott is the only bespectacled member of the household—and the boy was all of a sudden thrilled to don his own specs. You didn’t tell me it was a MAN thing, Mom! Bring ’em on!
From that moment on it has been smooth sailing, though there are certain logistics he has yet to figure out, such as what to do with one’s man-glasses while one is observing the time-honored man custom of sacking out on the couch on a Sunday afternoon.
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