One advantage of our new condo is that there is a playground (still called “funglasses” by A.) not more than a five minute walk/tricycle ride away. It is not the most impressive playground — the swings hang too low, it lacks spiral slides, there is this weird, terrifying metal tower that resembles a jail — but it does have a large basketball court that is mostly empty during the non-evening hours. A. really loves riding his tricycle on the court; there is also a huge concrete wall that could be used for raquetball, but that we enjoy running around in circles. Endless circles.
So while the morning still hung onto some residual coolness, we made our way to the basketball court, where we frolicked with balls and tricycles and ran until the sweating became overly profuse. Then we sat in the shade of the concrete wall and drank water, during which A. began going through the contents of my purse and found my travel hairbrush.
Of course, A. has no more knowledge of a hairbrush than he does of the federal deficit that he will inherit. He examined it, pushing and pulling the bristles, rubbing it lightly against the soft skin of his arm. He looked at me with a face full of question: ” Et-tay?”
“Brush,” I said, taking it and demonstrating by pulling it through my freshly-washed, super-fine shoulder length hair. “Brush.”
Too many consonant blends to repeat, A. instead seized the brush and began to attempt to brush my hair. He properly nestled the bristles within my hair, but then would only pull it about an inch before trying to re-place it at the start. Hence, my hair was being crudely teased; I could sense strands beginnning to knot together.
I let him continue, though, figuring it was good for his fine motor skills, figuring it wasn’t the worst treatment my hair has ever seen. I thought it was cute, so I even snuck a picture:
