Eli is very proud that he can now get a cup from the cupboard on his own, and reach the water dispenser on our refrigerator door with only minimal chance of dousing himself. I know he is proud of this new ability not because he says so, but because right now there are about fifteen little plastic cups sitting precariously on various tables and counters throughout my house, each half full of water. Some have bits of Goldfish cracker on their rims, other have colorful twirly straws protruding from them; I even found one with half a cookie in the bottom. The other night I watched him use three different cups in a span of five minutes.
And talk about pride going before a fall — every one of these cups is no more than three centimeters from the edge of its respective perch.
A few weeks ago Eli gave the wife some instruction about how potty time will work from now on: “Mom, when I say ‘I’m done,’ don’t say ‘just a minute’ — come wipe me!”
I suppose I would be impatient too. There is nothing so humbling as waiting for someone to wipe your behind.
Come to think of it, there is. It’s being in the middle of a serious conversation on a spiritual matter with friends who respect you, and having a bit of wisdom on the tip of your tongue, and opening your mouth to impart that wisdom to your friends, only to be interrupted by a command bellowed from the bathroom down the hall:
Yeah, you’re suddenly not so smart when that happens.