“Mommy, how many humps do camels have?”
He’s sitting in my lap during the safety break at the top of the hour. We have two towels wrapped around him; he’s a small and shivery five-year-old.
I run through my mental list of camel facts.
“I think they can have two or three, buddy.”
“I think they can have one hundred.”
This is how our conversations go: he asks a question, he corrects my answer, and I just agree. There’s no point in altering the dance steps.
“Mommy, what are the signs of the end of the world?”
I run through my mental list of the apocalypse. “Well, there are lots of them.”
“Can people break brick walls?”
“They would have to be very strong. But maybe some people can.”
“Wrecking balls can, Mommy.”
“They can. You’re right.”
“And we do. In Grover’s story, The Monster At The End Of This Book. He builds a brick wall, and we knock it down.”
“You’re right again, Ty.” There’s a matching app on my phone that lets him do the actual destruction with his fingertips.
“I think that’s so selfish of us. We are selfish.”
“We are. When we break Grover’s brick wall. He’s just trying to be brave and strong. He works so hard. And we break it down. That’s selfish. We are selfish people.”
Oh, sweet Tyler. The depth you found in that one page of the story we’ve read a million times. I adore your mind.
I love how you think.