Monday, January 31, 2011


Like raising an ADHD cat on cocaine. A 45-pound cat. That can talk. And that has thumbs.

I told Mama yesterday that's how it sometimes feels to raise 3B. There's the constant ping-ponging from one topic to another, back to the first, on to the third, all while ping-ponging among activities and locations. Then there's the talking.

Oh, the talking.

Like an avalanche coming down the mountain, he's going the distance, he's going for speed.

I can't blame anyone but myself for that trait, however. Mom made a note about me as an infant, before I could talk, that I babbled constantly, enough that the nurse at my pediatrician mentioned it. Bad enough that my mother, who'd already had five children, thought it notable, but worse that a nurse, who's probably seen hundreds of children in her career, found it worth mentioning.

And yet, all the shards of what appears to be a shattered mirror are reflecting one image. 3B will pull them all together into a whole, like assembling the pieces of a puzzle in one brilliant flash, like when I explain that Alpha Centauri is the nearest star after our own sun and 3B says to me, "You mean Alpha Sun-tauri?" with a sly grin.

And then there are all the other moments, when the ping ponging all stops and he focuses his tremendous attention on one item, usually a book. Recently, it's been the All-Star Superman books that his cousin gave him for Christmas. If we had the time, 3B would have us read them from cover-to-cover throughout the day, until he understood them completely.

Which could take awhile, unless you know why Superman loses his power under red sunlight.

And can explain it to me in small words.

Papa Bradstein is not Superman, he can't leap tall buildings in a single bound and isn't faster than a speeding train but he'll try to stop cancer with one bike ride.

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