poetry and motion

Today we bagged camp and spent the morning with a special friend. Mrs. Hampton, one of Frances's first grade teachers, and Gabriel developed a deliciously sweet connection over the course of the school year. Every morning that he and I would walk Frances into her classroom, Gabriel would prepare sometime to show her: bits of trash, plastic bugs, a library book, a beer bottle cap found on the street. If for some strange reason he forgot, he'd look at his empty hands and begin to cry. But the sadness never lasted, because Mrs. Hampton found a way to gently and affectionately show Gabriel that he had in fact brought her something...! A smile, a very nice t-shirt, a story about his day.

It isn't always easy for a boy like Gabriel, who adores his older sister completely. Ferociously loyal, he looks up to her always. When she has a friend over and doesn't want to play with him, he resorts to bratty younger brother-style mischief . But perhaps the worst is when he is being out-talked and out-witted by his verbally skillful older sister. That inspires pushing and shoving. Didi! he will yell inches from her face. Let me talk!

So that is why people like Mrs. Hampton are so very precious to me. My boy is blessed with countless adults who really listen to what he has to say. I am sure that these friends have helped make possible the infectious confidence with which he runs and jumps and shouts odd poetic phrases. Today we were in the bathroom at our pool and Gabriel pumped a bit of purple soap into his hand. He looked up at me and started laughing before he even got the words out.

This looks like...purple marmalade!!

And then he marched back to the pool with a swing in his hips, chanting pur-ple mar-ma-LAY-ADE! over and over, breaking into a ridiculous dance poolside, then collapsing in a laughing fit in a chair.

Sometimes he moves and speaks in a way that communicates a pure, delighted pleasure in simply being himself. What finer thing could a parent possibly witness? Thank you, Mrs. Hampton.