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Our son, Marty, was gazing out of our living room window.
After trying numerous ways of leaning, laying and sitting,
because the low, modern window sill offered him ample choice,
he settled into the most comfortable position.
With one knee carelessly resting on the window sill, so
the sole of his shoe could mark the lower wall, he placed his
elbow on the sill, his chin on his hand and used his other
hand to leave sticky finger prints on the pane of glass. His
other leg remained on the floor to support the abstract maneuvers
of his well-fed body.
His blond hair, which was in immediate need of a patient
barber, stood straight up on the crown of his head and fell in
uneven bangs across his forehead. One sleeve of his flannel
shirt was unbuttoned and part of his shirt-tail was untucked,
while the rest of it bulged through constant lack of attention.
One untied shoelace moved noiselessly as his foot swayed in a
steady rhythm. It was impossible to tell, if the other shoelace
was also untied, because that leg of his pants was unrolled,
covering most of his foot.
With an enthusiasm completely foreign to his laziness of
a moment earlier, he jumped from his peculiar perch and ran to
my chair. As he took each step, the waistband of his pants
dropped a notch lower on his hips. It was not immodesty, which
caused his unstable waistline. Indeed not! It was a matter
of principle. He had decided to exercise the independence
of other men, although he was only four years old. From his
point of view, there was only one way to carry out this policy:
He discontinued the use of suspenders and began to wear a
belt.
"Mama, Mama, can I go outside to play? Please... Pretty please?"
"It is much too cold, today," I told him. " Why not
wait til it warms up a bit?"
"But, Mama," he argued, his face overflowing with concern.
"The sun is in!"
"What do you mean, the sun is in?" I asked, even though
we were well aware of his annoying habit of purposefully saying
a phrase backwards.
"But the sun is in!" He almost shouted with excitement.
"The sun is in our front yard!"
So we tucked in his shirt, tightened his belt, tied his
shoe laces and zipped his jacket. There was a slam of the
door as he rushed from the house. Through the smudged window,
I watched our four year old Marty dancing over the green grass.
An enormous smile covered his impish face, where rosy circles
were already coloring his cheeks. His arms raised in a spontaneous
gesture of merriment as he welcomed the sun into his
front yard.
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