Well, it sometimes happens. Buried amid those multitudinous “other” moments–the ones where your demure, well-controlled children burst a gasket in public and act like Walmart Kids on a Saturday morning pop-tart high –there are also times when they shine: truly, beautifully, and unexpectedly. Times like these…
…Lewis, having behaved himself like a perfect gentleman all through dinner, very decently selects out the five minutes before our company departs, and expends it by lying on his stomach with an un-illustrated copy of Leave it to Psmith before him, open halfway through, to all appearances simply picking up the story where he had last left off.
…Or then, there’s Ingrid, hanging out with me while I clean up the family room. Though I hadn’t looked for it for several days, it suddenly struck me that it might be worthwhile checking with Inge about a prized book of poetry I lost two or three weeks ago. I make simplistic overtures. “Inge,” I begin, “Mommy lost a black book; have you seen it?” And my daughter replies, with utmost cordiality, “Was it your Ezra Pound?” (It was.)