So there I am.
(You know it's going to be a doozy when it starts with "So there I am," don't you?)
Anyway, so there I was, in the library. Just me and the Fab Five, doing our weekly run in which we fill a massive crate on wheels full to bursting with as many free reads as they will let us escape with. Thankfully, our library has a very generous lending policy that includes the added bonus of no fines. Nada. No charges for videos, no late fees.
Go ahead. Be jealous.
ANYWAY, there I am, at the library with my kiddos. I have Manolin in the ergo, Oliver in the joovy and Logan dragging the book crate. The older two are somewhere out of my line of sight. Truth be known, the library is as comfortable as our church at this point, and I don't think anything about letting the older two wander at will. Logan's not quite there yet, but there's a reason for that. A very good reason, as this little tale will illustrate.
Logan is my passionate, creative one. Logan is the boy who will agonize over sharpening a colored pencil to the right fineness, who will be almost physically ill from a clash in interior decorating that he finds cloying ... and yet, Logan will still put his shirt on backwards almost every day. It's part cute, part disturbing.
This, my friends, is what it's like to live with a creative genius. The details are important only when they play a part in the big picture that the genius is currently bringing to life. Otherwise ... who cares?
As we're waltzing through nonfiction section 951, Logan suddenly looks stricken.
"Mom, I have to go to the bathroom," he says, clearly panicked.
"O.k. Right now?"
"Yeah! Poop!" His eyes begin to bulge as I weigh my options.
"O.k. Um... go. Just go. Go right over there in the children's section. I'll meet you at the door outside."
Logan takes off at a run, dodging study carrolls and all sense of decorum. It takes me a moment to manage the heavy book crate and the stroller, but I finally gain momentum and start towards the children's section. To my shock, Logan meets me at the door.
"You're finished?" I ask.
"Did you go?" I'm truly curious now. This was literally a three minute potty, and this from the boy who can linger for half an hour if left alone.
"And you flushed?" I'm getting worried now. How on earth--?
"Well, yeah. Of course." He seems slightly indignant.
I lean in, close. Barely in a whisper I ask, "Did you wipe, Logan?"
He squirms slightly.
"Uh ... no."
I am horrified. Absolutely horrified.
"Why not? What in the --?"
"I was finished. I was just ... done."
And this is why Logan does not wander the library alone. All big picture, no details. Or all details, no big picture. That's my boy.