Baby Bird

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.