Thumps
Wade heard several thumps from upstairs. He looked around the room. Timmy was lying on the floor of the living room applying himself to his coloring book. It was a bit of effort for him, but not outside of his ability. At least the light pressure he was able to exert made a smooth and pleasing level of saturation to the work. Many kids pushed too hard and made garish contrasts.
Wade turned off the TV. Timmy had been making an effort to keep his clothes on for longer stretches of time. Wade presumed he was hoping the neighbor girl might stop by at any time. The mental effort to keep his surface intact and apply himself to other tasks at the same time was satisfying to see.
“Timmy, buddy, would you get your old dad a beer?”
Timmy looked up and smiled. He put down his crayon and started getting up. “Sure, Dad! Coming right up!” Walking carefully, so as to stay on the floor, Timmy moved into the kitchen without bumping into anything and knocking his clothes off.
Even brushing against the leaves of a potted plant had been enough to do it before, snagging his shirt or pants and sending them to the floor when the bubble of concentration burst.
Timmy stepped up to the refrigerator, his former nemesis. Wade had built a contraption on the side of the ‘fridge to give Timmy enough leverage to get the door open. It took about ten pounds of force to open the door against its magnets, and Timmy couldn’t pull that hard.
With the lever, Timmy was able to open the door, get a cold beer, and let the door close by itself. He was proud to be able to do things for himself, and in this case, for his Dad.
He wrapped both hands around the can of beer. It was always necessary to maximize the amount of surface area of an object he touched in order to control it. Cold though the metal was to most people, Timmy did not feel it, and he did not want to drop it.
He carried the beer carefully and proudly back to his dad, and set it gently on the table with a smile.
“Thank you, son. Now, as quickly as you can, go up and tell your brothers I want to talk with them.”
Timmy looked up, bounced on his feet, and sailed upward through the living room ceiling. His tee shirt and shorts fluttered down to land on Wade’s head.
Sighing, Wade plucked the items off his head and sat them on the arm of the chair. Then he popped the top of the beer.
So helpful, that Timmy. At least he went upstairs. When I ask a child to “go upstairs and tell your brother I’d like him to come down,” the child generally goes to the foot of the stairs and hollers.
Poor Timmy. Still, he sounds like an *ahem* interesting child.