That Thing He Does

All kids have "that thing," you know? That certain mannerism they have or thing they say that is so uncharacteristic for their age that it's adorable, even if it borders on being inappropriate. Julian has something we call the finger wag. An authoritative wag of the right index finger, the other fingers carefully curled under, the chubby pointed one moving rapidly side to side. Tsk tsk tsking.

If something is not where it belongs, he wags.

If somebody does something they're not supposed to do, he wags.

If somebody uses a bad word, he wags.

Today, I got a protracted explanation of what a bulldozer was doing in front of his daycare when we were walking in. There was such a mountain of snow accumulated in the street that they had to send in a bulldozer to scoop all the snow away, and two highway workers to scrape off what was left of the snow and ice when the dozer was done.

"Mom, they're cleaning that street because that street is dirty." The finger is up, poised for wagging, but not moving yet.

"Mom, that street is dirty that's why they have to clean it." (Julian is also artful at saying the same thing about four different ways.)

"And Mom, that street has a lot of snow on it, and that's not good to have a lot of snow on the street." Then, there it is: wag wag wag.

"Mom, snow doesn't belong there on the street," the wagging is continuing, like a metronome, in front of his face. "Snow belongs on the sidewalk. That's where snow belongs."

He stares at the bulldozer and the men scraping with rapt attention, his round little cheeks luminous in the morning sun, his mouth slightly open.

That thing has cast its spell on me: I spy the little pink bottom lip and decide to make my move while he's in a state of stunned distraction. I give the little lip a kiss while he's looking off into the street, holding the little baby flesh in my lips for a moment and savoring it. He shivers with delight in my arms. Kissing under the bleachers was never this good.