Love

“I wanna see Mary!”

I’m in the kitchen, preparing dinner. On a Sunday afternoon. The clear small trail of a toddler voice is not something I typically hear on weekends. Nor, since my youngest is a teen, any children’s voices, come to that. Unless we’re talking the rude pair of brothers from up the street, or the 6-year-old shrieker a little closer, at any rate. (The shrieker’s a nice kid, but lordy! that voice… which should NOT be out on the street at 9:30 p.m. Ahem.)

In that case, I just shut the window. And grumble a bit. Razzn fratzn kids… should be in bed… running with scissors… shouting…

You know, I’m curious what kind of old lady I’ll end up being. Will I be the smiling, apple-cheeked granny type who coos over babies and praises young mothers, radiating caring and support? Because I do that now, you know. Or will I be the cantankerous sort, grousing about the lack of manners and respect in children and the lack of gracious authority in parents? Mutter, mutter, mutter. Because I do that, too.

“I wanna see Mary!”

This small voice is in my home and, it turns out, attached to Timmy, who lives a couple blocks down my street. He’d been at the park, and, passing my house, had asked his mother if he could stop in and say hi.

Emma answered the door, and is greeted with,

“I wanna see Mary!” (You understand that he is not being angry or rude. His tone of voice is cheerful. He’s just letting her know that… he wants to see Mary, you see!)

“Timmy,” mummy remonstrates. “Say hello to Emma first.”

“Hello. I want to see Mary.”

And when Mary, having put the pot of boiling water on a different burner to simmer, finally appears, does he launch himself at her?

Nope. All that anticipation, a whole 40 seconds of build-up, has served to render the boy speechless. (Timmy, speechless. Hard to fathom, I know.)

I kneel down and give him a hug, while his mother, filling in for her mute son, tells me of his happy transition to kindergarten. Timmy rests on my knee while she recounts the story told her by one of his teachers.

Between activities, Timmy raced to give Shannon, one of the assistants at the school’s daycare, a hug. “I love you, Shannon!” he declared. Shannon was delighted, of course, but curious to know what had triggered this outburst of affection.

“Why, thank you, Timmy. What makes you say that?”

And Timmy, wide-eyed with sincerity, replies, “Because I just love everybody!”

Timmy’s mother and I share a proud laugh. He really is that generous with his love. Timmy is still silent on my porch, but when I kiss the top of his head, he snuggles in closer, and we bask a bit, all three of us, in the wonder of pure and innocent love.

Meh. I think I’ll be a nice old lady, all in all.