Lime Means Go

This week, the white nightlight in my son’s room became vanilla.

The orange light in the hallway outside his door is now the cheese light.

When we approached a traffic signal this afternoon, he said “lime means go, lemon means slow and strawberry means stop.”

When I suggested that broccoli might also mean go, he tried it out a few times and quickly went back to “lime light.”  Smart boy.  “Broccoli light” isn’t half the fun to say.

“Apple means go and stop.”  That one took me a minute.

At the store a few days ago, he was elated by the giant baseball diamonds made from towers of soda can cartons.

“Hug a shape?” he asked, pointing with his thumb.

Of course, I said “yes.”

He also performed a very meaningful series of calisthenics in front of the chilled wine section.

There were hand gestures and several “beeps” and “whoops” involved in that.

I think he was reenacting a scene from one of his video games, but I’ll probably never know for sure.

On the way to my friend’s house tonight, we went to the store again.

We were supposed to be in and out in ten minutes, but we had to spend an extra five looking at light bulbs.

We didn’t need any light bulbs, but the little boy needed to see them. And not because we happened upon their shelf.

He sought out the aisle.  He led me to them.

And he could name them all…vanilla, water, cheese.

At Walmart, he hugged the clocks.  He needed to do it.

I felt compelled to point out the display of digital models he’d yet to see.

He started jumping up and down and flapping his hands.  Then he paused and hugged those too.

Before we could move on, he had to say the name and color of every digit on the packages.

The most exciting event of the week was the repair of our street light.

It has been flickering right outside his window for over two months.

(I’ll need a completely separate post to address the total malfunction of our HOA and its utter failure to fulfill simple requests from its residents.  Insert heavy sigh with a lining of disgust and a dusting of fatigue.)

The repair guy talked to us from his ladder perch.

My son was mesmerized.

We couldn’t wait for darkness to fall that afternoon.

When it did, he told me that the street lamp is a cheese light too.

My kid loves numbers and order.  When I’m not looking, he makes his own math problems.

This week, he’s enamored of fives.  He hasn’t learned to carry the tens as yet, hence the 99 + 44 = 1313 on the top row.

He can name all the planets and tell you that the sun is a star.  He can even waffle over the inclusion of Pluto as the rest of us do.

A few days ago, I asked him to tell me that he was sorry for throwing things.  He said “I’m sorry for throwing stuff.”  It pretty much melted me to hear his spontaneous word substitution.   “Stuff?”  Totally appropriate synonym.  Amazing.

He’s been out of school for just three days.

In that short amount of time, we’ve had some very dark intersections between hunger, fatigue, stress, boredom and miscommunication.

I’ve yelled.  He’s screamed.  I’ve had unreasonable expectations.  He has hurled bananas across the kitchen.

But, in taking these blurry pictures on my crappy outdated phone, I have been reminded what a joyous little creature I get to raise.

I sure do love this boy.


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