Adelaide settled in next to me and stared at the pages of my book. This is not unusual behavior on her part.
I read for about a minute. Then Adelaide pointed at the book and asked, "Does that say 'so'?"
"Does that say 'the'?"
"Does that say 'look'?"
"Does that say 'over'?"
And on and on it went. "Does that say 'bad, even, do, for, of, met, you, to, if, go, from, she, love'?"
I silently kept count in my head, and when we hit word number 35, I started laughing. Adelaide paused, joined in for a few seconds, then asked, "Why are we laughing?"
I took a moment to gather my thoughts. Just to say, "Because I'm happy," would have been accurate, but not really the whole truth. Sometimes when something new and amazing comes along, I just can't help but laugh. When I was pregnant with Adelaide and felt her move for the first time, I stopped what I was doing and laughed and laughed, full of the wonder of it all. When Atticus first said, "Mama," the joy seemed to bubble up out of me in the form of a laugh. And that's what happens when I see Adelaide reading. It seems to come so easily to her, and to see her enjoying and catching on so fast to something that I love, it's wonderful. And, apparently, laughable.
I tried to explain all this to Adelaide, then apologized in advance for being the mother that, instead of crying at her wedding and graduations, will likely be laughing like a loon, making a complete spectacle of myself. She accepted my apology with the caveat that I not be too loud so as not to embarass her. "Fat chance," I thought, but instead meekly said, "I'll try, honey."
And now, for the non sequitur of the week, here is Caedmon.
We spend our mornings playing at home, walking around town, visiting the library and the playground. By lunchtime most days, the poor little guy is plum tuckered.
He usually falls asleep over his sweet potatoes and Crispy Oats (that's Aldi-speak for Cheerios).
He takes a nap, wakes up, and we do it all over again.
I love summer.