The other day Mom took Tre and Max to their piano lesson, as usual. As Max was waiting during Tre’s lesson, he took to crawling around on the floor, his forehead pushing along the carpet. He said it tickled.
Mom watched him, wondering if she should stop him. She figured he’d stop if it hurt.
I could have told her otherwise.
When he stood up he had a round rug burn on his forehead, just below his hairline. By the time he got home it really stung, and he kept poking at it and wincing.
“Did you learn something?” I asked him. He nodded soberly back, but I’m still not sure EXACTLY what he learned. Eh. At least he learned something.
The next morning, the burn had darkened into an impressive looking scab on his forehead. It no longer hurt, so as far as Max was concerned, all was well.
Except wherever we go we tend to have the exchange we had today at Chik-fil-A.
The woman behind the counter spotted Max’s forehead and gasped,
”Oh my goodness, honey, WHAT HAPPENED?” Max looked at her blankly, so she followed up with, “to your forehead? Right there?”
He scowled at her and replied (as though it were obvious),
“Oh. Well, WHERE did you get a rug burn on your forehead?”
Max shook his head at her obtuseness, and said (again, as though any simpleton would have figured this out by now),
“At my piano lesson.” Then he turned on his heel and walked away.
Now, I know that Max can be somewhat shy, and doesn’t like having animated questions directed at him by strangers. I know that the process of explaining what happened would be actually painful for him. The strangers? Don’t know that, so they figure Max is a) good heavens, an odd little boy or b) has a brutal piano teacher with unconventional methods. When he turned his back on the nice inquiring counter lady today, she looked to me for an explanation.
But I don’t feel any need to explain Max, so I smiled and ordered lunch instead.