For the record, I just cracked my knuckles. It seemed like the stereotypical thing to do when returning to something after a long absence. This concept has been endlessly reinforced by popular media and is indeed indicative of it’s educational power for as it is I am in an incredible amount of pain from the first joint of each digit down to the nail. Undoubtably, I have condemned myself to an early retirement from this profession via arthritis as well, but perhaps brevity brought on by wracking pain would improve my meandering style of composition anyway as this last pair of run-on sentences clearly demonstrate.
Alas, there shall be no such brevity tonight.
Now those who know me are probably keening to hear about the house Danielle and I just bought, or perhaps to a lesser extent the car I just acquired, or perhaps to an infinitely lesser extent the cheap but servicable music player I purchased to go with the aforementioned car to keep me company whilst driving it from the aforementioned house to the not so aforementioned job I hold for the sake of feeding the theives who surround me at every moment. In all off these regards, I am the poster-child of disappointment. Instead I will be relating a story to you that differs from my usual work in a significant way. It actually happened.
Alexander often comes to me with his shoes and make an expectory grunt. If one grunt doesn’t get his point across, he uses another. After several such attempts one of two things happens. Either I put the shoes away because it’s ten o’clock at night and I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if I let him muss up his pyjamas at the park when he should have been in bed hours ago, or we go to the park. Yesterday was of the latter case.
This park is right outside the front of our apartment building, and Danielle and I often take Alexander there. Although swings are missing from the gravel landscape, much of the other park fare is present and in servicable condition.Wobbly things to sit on, slides, things with which to climb to the top of the slides, all the usual suspects are lined up and read for some toddler scrutineering. Usually Alexander with some assistance hops the small curb into the gravel and runs for the first thing he wants me to break my back lifting him up to so he doesn’t have to suffer the drudgery of the climby bits. This time, however, he seemed to have figured out a way to sit down at the edge of the curb and, through a belabored process of shuffling on his arse to a position in which his feet are sufficiently ahead of the precipice, hop down himself. This puts a smile on my face borne of the selfish relief that there’s one less thing he needs me to bend over for.
Now, Alexander often finds litter on the ground outside, and the park is no exception. So I am not even mildly surprised when he picks up a discarded bendy straw from the get-go. He’s a smart boy, though, and so generally when he finds something of this nature he looks up to me and offers it to me for disposal in a nearby garbage receptacle. Sometimes he even does so for larger than average rocks that stubbornly upset the even grain of his precious gravel. This time, he challenges my expectations again when he climbs the curb, walks sternly over to the refuse bin, and not being able to reach the opening at the top places the errant plastic along its edge and returns to the park proper. Again he spends a good half a minute shuffling over the edge, and he’s back again, expectedly to slap at one of the wobbly rides mercilessly until I hoist him up onto it for a few seconds of cheap thrills.
Instead he reaches out and finds another piece of litter. This time it looks like one of those white stones he seems to despise so much, but by the time he gets to the waste bin and deposits the object, I suddenly recognize it to be a spent cigarette butt. I have trained him well it seems as this is the kind of thing he’d normally try to put in his mouth for investigation, but instead he’s making his best effort to throw it out. He shuffles back into the fun pit, which I must stress once again is a difficult maneuver for him, and repeats the process.
He shows no sign of irritation, nor does he giggle or chirp with excitement as he is known to do when he’s completing a task, he just blithely and matter-of-factly goes after another cigarette butt to dispose of it. It is now that I realize that this particular form of litter is not as isolated an occurrence as it usually is. There are two dozen of them or more partially buried in the dirt at the one edge of the park, where Alexander often starts his Olympic training routine. The carelessness of it stirs a cauldron of rage within, and I suddenly fantasize about waiting for one of these smokers and forcing the butt down his throat.
These fires are doused by my son who, not six seasons of age, is simply cleaning them up one by one without any anger in his heart. Climbing up and down the ledge to put the anomalous material where it belongs, my little boy is showing more sense and care than what is likely a large group of thoughtless and inconsiderate adults. It is overwhelming to behold.
Of course I could not allow him to continue out of concern for his health, and it pained me greatly that I would not be able to take up his work and still manage to protect him from it. Conflicted I took him back up to the apartment, apologizing for the short trip to the park, and immediately wash his hands.
I still feel no peace over the event.
Ja.