I have discovered that Ian has the ability to raise the dead. Not dead people, but dead things. Aunty Mo gave Elliott a toy music box when he was about Ian's age. Push the green play button and the box started playing all of your classical music favorites. If you have no classical music favorites, like me, then hearing the small box play was a torture that makes having your fingernails pulled out seem no more unpleasant than a manicure (I haven't had one, but Katie has been known to pay for them so I'd like to think its a pleasant experience).
This is precisely why the moment Elliott's fascination with the radio began to wane I jumped at the opportunity to kill it. And in doing so, I recalled the torture it had brought upon me and instead of a quick death I decided to bury it alive. I dug inside Elliott's toy box with my bare hands for what seemed like hours, until at last I reached the bottom that had supported the mountain of toys now piled beside it. I carefully laid the radio on the floor of the toy box, the play button buried away from the possibility of accidental ignition, and then reloaded the box with the toys until I was sure the radio was gone from site and thought forever.
And for months it was gone. Gone like Jimmy Hoffa. But I was laying on the couch catching a nap the other day and I heard a haunting sound. It was much more concerto than pop or rock. I rose from my nap and how I wish I would have been greeted by Jimmy Hoffa himself, but instead, what I saw was much worst. It was that music box. It had been raised from the dead. Ian's boundless curiosity explored its way to the bottom of the toy box and fished out a once dead radio. Ian revived it and within minutes the radio was celebrating a new lease on life like only Mozart or Beethoven could.
I fear Ian has only begun to warm the many cold case disappearances of annoying toys and noise makers throughout our house. I considered the disappearing radio one of my finer works. But if it can be uncovered, can the singing wooden stick horse be far behind.
Little Ian visited an allergist yesterday. It was discovered that eggs and soy and salmon and a host of other moderate allergies are probably causing his skin rashes. The doctors said he may grow out of them, but it will have to be looked at year to year. Katie said Ian did a great job with the two hours of scratching and poking on his back. She said he spent more time twisting and turning to get a glimpse of what was going on than displaying discomfort. Mama was a trooper helping him through the ordeal.
Elliott is turning into a sports junkie (gets that from his mother I'm sure). He barked at me one night last week for turning the baseball game to the Sprout channel for kids. I mistakenly thought it would help him settle down for bed, never dreaming he was so into the Reds getting clobbered by the Cubbies. Sunday morning Elliott asked to watch Tiger Woods before the television had even been turned on. Unfortunately, by the time we tuned into Tiger he was losing a shot at his 15th career major championship. Elliott has recovered from that quicker than I have.
Sunday afternoon Elliott was watching the Xgames style biking. The riders were doing 360's several feet off the ground as well as various other stunts. Elliott said "someday when I get bigger I'm going to ride my bicycle on TV." He made me take him outside after dinner to ride his tricycle so he could practice for the big day. I kept waiting for a big three wheeled trick, but for now he seems content peddling on the sidewalk away from the bright lights and cameras, which is plenty ambitious for me right now.
And one other Elliott moment. Katie went to get a pedicure while we were at the beach a couple of weekends ago. When she was finished, Elliott and Ian and I met her in the parking lot before walking to the grocery store in the same little strip mall. Elliott stopped in his tracks when we joined Katie and stared at her feet.
"Did you get your toes painted mama?" he asked.
"Yes I did Elliott."
"They look very pretty mama." said Elliott. And this is how mama's boys are made.
One final thought. As I listened to sports talk show listeners phone in their opinions on Michael Vick this week, I made a discovery. We live in a world that is far more concerned with receiving apologies than giving them. I listened to countless people voice their opinion that Michael Vick is not remorseful and therefore shouldn't be back playing in the NFL. Now I'm not a Michael Vick fan and I hate the mistreatment of pets and people. But I loathe more the notion that because a man mistreated a bunch of pit bulls a portion of our society sits waiting for an apology; an apology they feel qualified to authenticate. It is this branch of our society that would probably be better served mending their own trespasses, and believe me, we all have them.
I couldn't help but think of the Pharisees who brought the woman to Jesus who was guilty of committing adultery. They had hoped Jesus would ignore the law that required the woman to be stoned to death so they could call him liberal towards God's law. But Jesus, in his infinite wisdom, told them OK, but let you who is free of sin throw the first stone. The Pharisees were overcome with guilt and dispersed.
I think we should limit calls and opinions that want to measure the remorse of others to those who have nothing to be remorseful of themselves. Just a thought.