A Butterfly Moment

Sometimes I overestimate the urban savvy of my small sons. Like, for instance, this morning:

Julian and I were leaving the apartment and I was busy trying to find the right keys to lock our apartment door. Julian was waiting for me in the hall.

"Julian, can you call the elevator, please?"

"OK, sure Mom," he says, moving like a little soldier toward the elevator, a few precious Bakugans in one hand and his other hand balled up like an infant's fist. I'm smiling to myself, back turned on him, because I love it when he says "sure Mom"! It's one of those rare moments when I truly enjoy my son's company, when my tornado of a pre-schooler suddenly exudes something more like a gentle, tropical breeze on which a butterfly might float. A butterfly with nothing to do all day but be beautiful and feel the sun on his wings.

Still with my back turned, this is what I hear next:

"Yoooohoooo! Oh, elevator! Where are you, elevator? We're waiting for you, elevator! Please come up to us, elevator! Yooooohooo!"

I turn to see him with his head pointed toward the innards of the elevator shaft, behind the closed door, trying to delicately coax the elevator upstairs with his child voice. I howl.

He sees me and knows he did something funny, but isn't sure what. He smiles back, my small butterfly. As we leave, laughing together, I'm feeling so sorry to take him off to school.