He is standing on his two-step stool at the counter improvising a song about pears. The lyric: "Pears, pears, pears," and he is contagiously happy.
Why? Because I let him cut the pears on his own. With a knife. A real one.
Am I ridiculous?
I mean, he is only three.
But they are the softest fruit I know of, those canned pears. And I can't deny it makes me happy to see him filled with joy so uncontainable he must sing about it.
He scoops the pears into the bowl with the other fruit I had already cut.
He brings it to the table where Bill and I are waiting like guests at a restaurant.
He goes back for a serving spoon and chooses the exact one I would have: the slotted one from the silverware drawer.
And then he scoops us each a serving into the glass bowls and passes them our way with two hands.
I can't help it. I'm kinda proud of this little person who can do more and more all the time.
I see my pathetically small serving of fruit salad and before I can say anything he tells me,
"Just start with that,"
and suddenly our roles have so completely reversed it feels uncanny.
But it's just a moment. In an hour Bill and I will be back on full duty, endlessly parenting our baby bird with all of our energy and most of our patience.
It was fun to watch him fluff his feathers a bit, though.