THE SONIC BOOMER
In an effort to avoid gender stereotyping, my daughter lets her two-year-old son, Skippy, wear whatever he wants. This is what I did when raising her, but she grew up in Loxahatchee, where you can pretty much walk around naked if you want to (and some do) as the houses are blessedly far apart.
So yesterday, when they left to go to Whole Foods Market, Skippy was wearing his red skinny pants, his Batman pajama top, his new Cars (the movie) flip-flops and one of my headbands. To complete the outfit, he carried the fluffy white bunny from his Easter basket, his favorite doll (blondes really do have more fun) and my expensive pearl evening bag.
He cut quite a striking figure.
I cannot convey how much fun it is watching this kid grow up knowing that I cannot be held personally (or legally) responsible.
Last week, when I took him shopping, we were halfway home before I noticed that he was wearing swim goggles around his neck, the price tag still intact.
“Skippy! Did you take those goggles out of the store?”
“Yup.”
“But you didn’t pay! You have to pay for things you take out of the store. You can’t just walk out with them!”
“I see,” he said.
“I see” is one of his favorite phrases, used whenever he learns something new, but it is rather disconcerting coming out of his two-year-old mouth. I mean, it’s not as if he’s sitting atop a mountain somewhere,
dispensing advice to his followers.
“Now we have to turn this car around and give those back.”
“OK.”
Problem solved, at least in his mind.
I don’t know what it is about that kid and accessories. At story time, he runs to get his glasses. He doesn’t need glasses, it’s just that he sees us all in glasses whenever we read, and he wants to fit in. He pulled this pair out of a countertop basket at a store, instantly in love with them because of their natty striping. He wouldn’t take them off no matter how elaborately I cajoled, so I had to buy them, then remove the magnifying lens from them so he wouldn’t look like such a bug. And, unlike the rest of us, he always knows where his glasses are.
You should see him at bedtime. Mark and I will be sitting in front of the TV, deeply involved in some murder-mystery show or troubling financial report, and he’ll burst into the room buck-naked except for a pale yellow hoodie-towel-capelike thing. And we don’t dare laugh, either, because he is quite seriously hollering “I Superboy! I save daaaay!” Then he’ll grab an antique drum or 100-year-old pull-toy duck that I have lying around as decorative accents and become even more entertaining.
Skippy does everything to the fullest. Because the Masters golf tournament was on last week, Mark decided to introduce him to the game of golf. We got him a little plastic set of clubs and, first time out, he whacked that ball with such force it hit the house. But here’s the thing — he took two practice swings first. What two-year-old does that? And where did he learn it? From the TV he’s not allowed to watch?
I must say that whether he’s carrying a purse, dressed as a super hero with a pull-toy or ominously warming up with golf clubs in the backyard, I love that little guy. I really, really do.
