Thursday, March 23, 2006

Rolling In The Grass

I spent some time outside with Sir today. The sun was blazing, and it made our 48 degree weather feel like 55/60, which is warm to us Northerners. At first I thought we'd take a little stroll around the backyard, but he had other ideas. There's something about grass that makes him uncontrollable; as soon as he sees the stuff, he's pushing to get out of my arms--and he's a very strong baby (even his doctor says so). So today I didn't try to fight him. I touched the ground to make sure it was dry, and then I released Mr. Bizzy Bee.

First, he inspected the semi-dead, wintry grass. After what seemed to be his version of analyzing-a-thing, he took a small handful and tasted some. I'm usually upset by his taste tests, but this time I was too busy looking down to see if any mystery stuff was in the grass; by this time, I, too, was on my hands and knees.

I watched Bizzy for a minute, realizing that my recent theory about not using the word no was true. Bizzy quenched his desire to taste the grass, but then further inspected it without needing to nibble on it. I believe that had I challenged him by yelling no, it would have prompted him to stuff a lot more in his mouth. I'm trying to reserve the word no for emergencies: No! A car is coming. I've noticed that Isom laughs at no, but when I say specifically what I need from him (Please do not touch that hot fire.), he tends listen. Mom caught on to this no theory early, and she's practicing telling him exactly what she needs him to do. And today my dad finally got the message. After yelling no over and over without getting a response from Bizzy, he firmly stated, "Isom, get down or you'll hurt yourself." And it only took Bizzy a nanosecond to do as he was told. Dad then turned to me and said, "I didn't believe it, but now I see what you're saying."

Anywho. Bizzy and I crawled around on all fours exploring the backyard for an hour. He tasted dirt, sticks, and God only knows what else. He crawled from one end of the earth to the other. I was even pressured into allowing him to drag me across hard pavement on my 30-year-old knees. At one point, we stopped and took in the fresh air and the serene quietude; the sun warmed our backs and we luxuriated in our freedom. I didn't need any FREEDOM steps, any words, any fussing, any self-help books, any food, any water, any cookies... I only needed the moment, my sweet friend, Bizzy, and our simple freedom.

By the time we went inside, we had dirt and grass all over us, and I spent more time than I wanted trying to pull all of the grass out of his coiled 'fro. We looked like two little Pig Pens. And it felt good.

Just for a moment, be a child.

If not, how else can you relate to one?