Moments Like These

So, it was about 11 o'clock, and the Momma had gone to bed. Since me and the boy had taken a nap late this afternoon after seeing our friends' new baby, we were still pretty much awake.

Now, this isn't to say that we didn't try putting him to bed earlier tonight. His Momma had tried when I was at the store getting a few needed groceries, and we both tried when she decided to go to bed. On the last try, Cole made his eat/drink signal (a hand to the mouth with a snacking noise), so Momma went to bed and the boy and I went to the kitchen.

As is our usual practice, we assembled what he wanted, which goes like this for waffles (the staple food for the boy because it incorporates so many of his favorite things: toaster, toaster, toaster):

BOY

(From a squatting position that doesn't allow for parental access and removal from kitchen, done by hunching over halfway between the wet noodle and standing)

Uhh. Uhh. Aaaneewannaohhh.

(spelled more like intent than the actual utterance, of course)

PAPA

Tell me what you want or get the hell out of the kitchen.
(Yes, I'm horrible and at 11 o'clock, use words like hell, etc. to express by undying affection for the boy and his paternally inherited stubbornness.)

BOY

Uhhh.
(Still half-noodling.)

PAPA

Okay, show me.

BOY

Uhwa?

(Like, "really" and "okay" depending on the circumstance, this word means either, in this instance, both.)

Recognizing that I have understood his request and resolve, he proceeds to move him and I around the kitchen. First, to the refrigerator, where we open the door, and he tries to remove the container of buttermilk, but realizes that, while the same cylinder shape, does not look exactly like the butter. After searching the shelf a bit, he locates the butter behind the yogurt. He carries the butter to the table, and then walks back, all smiles and raises his arms. I pick him up, open the freezer, and he points to the waffles. I remove one and hand it to him, dropping him to the floor so he can point to the cabinet where the toaster is kept (very out of reach otherwise we would have toasted everything, seriously, everything would be toasted). He follows me to the table, and climbs into a chair so that I can place the toaster on the table and plug it in as he directs, and then he begins to toast the waffle. Repeatedly.

To toast anything in the toaster with Cole's help means that it will toast in twenty second increments because that is how long he'll wait after pushing down the lever, selecting one of the buttons on the face (usually all, the last of which is the "Cancel" button, which sends the waffle back up to receive the same series again: lever...button...button...cancel...lever, etc.).

He attempts to butter the waffle and cut it with a fork while I finish buttering and cutting it with a knife. He sees the mess on the fork and climbs off the chair, walks to the sink, and pitches it up over the lip, then offers a hand for the replacement.

Back in the chair, it is syrup (normally done by the boy, but we're running low, so Papa does it, so easy on the syrup, but enough not to trigger a disagreement about our completing this phase of the waffle making).

While the boy eats his waffle and drinks milk out of a tall cup (probably, too tall, but he manages with one hand the whole time). The only drawback to the tall cup is that it requires a bit of tipping to get the milk out of it. This means that he occasionally makes a noise into the cup before drinking from it, which incites a series of dialogues through the cup because he thinks it sounds funny.

BOY

Muhumf, muhumfa, mumfa? (Producing a laugh that giggles the milk around the glass, making laugh more, the muffled sound deeper sounding from inside the cup.)

PAPA

Goof.

BOY

Muhumfa, mumfa. (More laughter.)

He quickly tires of the cup-muffled talking, for the moment, and resumes eating while I prepare my own late dinner, a couple of toasted sandwiches with what still remained of last weeks lunch meat.

I remove them from the pan to a plate, cut them, pour myself a drink.

PAPA

Okay, lets go.

Cole climbs from the chair as I gather my dinner in my arms, one hand has the plate, the other has the glass. When he has reached the ground, he turns and removes his plate from the table.

Now, this is the reason for telling you all this about the waffle ritual and the kitchen activity. This moment that I'm about to tell you about.

He's removing the plate with pieces of waffle still on it, and I'm thinking he's clearing the finished dishes, and I'll have to move back into the kitchen to keep him from spilling the contents of the plate or him breaking it when it falls. But before I can move to do so, I realize that he is taking it with him, holding it level and pressing it between his arm and chest.

I realize, we're going to go eat together in the living room.

I'm impressed that he carries it without spilling it, an impression that lasts only long enough for him to turn and reach for his large plastic cup of milk, with one hand. I brace for disaster. He grabs the cup with one hand and carries both the plate (ceramic by the way, very breakable as I've proven). I am now beside myself with pride for his latest gigantic accomplishment that he has done with the nonchalance of Cary Grant entering a room, poised, confident.

He moves through the opened gate, through the living room to the couch, where he places his cup on the snack tray, the plate on the couch, and climbs into position next to both. I am floored, and at the same time, enjoying the beauty of the moment, of the boy's amazing leaps of change done in ending hours of a day, his carefree grace as he shares this moment of his wonderful little life with his dad, just the boys having a snack on the sofa, and the idea that this moment is unique and mundane and fantastic because it is both. It is all of life and so very little of it.

I could go on now, about the way he sits with his legs spread around the plate he has placed in front of himself, or that he keeps the cup pressed against his chest as he plucks waffle pieces from the plate and watches The Legend of Zorro on television, oblivious to the effect his life has on the world around him, but I won't because you know this moment from your own life, from those pieces of joy that you have placed together somewhere in your soul to keep with you for quiet moments or to be used as the measure of a good life when the time comes.