Deep inside the palm of 2-yr old boys exists one of the strongest magnets known to parents. The particular objects of attraction, for some reason wholly unknown to me (but completely understood because I was a boy once myself), are rocks. Or pebbles, or stones, you get the idea. Why is this so, the scientist in me asks? No idea. But the very first thing that our eldest child would do when he escaped into the sunshine would be to stoop and select a rock. Roundness and smoothness were properties that seemed to render them fist-worthy. He would then proceed to undertake whatever the secondary purpose of the afternoon was, be it the sandbox, swings, play set etc, carrying his little treasure with him where ever he went. Interestingly, after a while boys seem to graduate to sticks (boys-and-sticks), but for several years, rocks are king. On one of these such Saturday afternoons during the early days of Dadhood, I forgot that he had already collected his prize. We rode the bike (with him in the kiddy seat), played outside, came in, made dinner, cleaned up, bathed him, read books, told wacky stories and finally put him to bed. When I came to check on him later, I noticed that his little right fist was closed tight. Prizing it open, I discovered the rock. He had clutched it for 4-5 hours at least.
It was warm.
-I wish I'd kept it