Wednesday, March 24, 2010


I came groggily into the kitchen on a Saturday morning. My eyes, still trying to focus, were greeted by warm sunlight filtering through the maple trees into the nook. Suddenly those bleary eyes were completely focused. Several unmistakable signs alluded to strange child activity. My mom's salad bowl. Sopping wet hand towels. Mitt conditioner. A glove. And Aidan.

It was the first day of baseball practice. He had a brand new glove, and daddy had promised to show him how to make it nice and flexible. A little soaking, a little oiling, storing it under the mattress . . . . But daddy was sick, and Aidan wanted to make sure his glove was ready. So he took it upon himself to soak his glove in the early morning (in my mom's lovely salad bowl). He was careful to clean up the water (with my mom's lovely hand towels). He found Drew's glove conditioner and applied. Liberally. And he was smiling and proud.

I couldn't help but be impressed by his enthusiasm and ingenuity. After a quick scan of the kitchen I saw that there really wasn't anything to be alarmed at. He had placed the bowl carefully on the counter, and the towels were sitting in a nice, soggy heap. The only problem was that he now had a really wet glove . . . and we had to leave in less than an hour.

Thankfully, that blessed glove was made of leather. I popped it in the oven. Thirty minutes at 200 and the toothpick came out clean: the glove was done. So we raced out the door -- the smiling boy, the well-conditioned glove, and I.
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