Tonight as I dug Le Petit's pajamas out from under a mound of pillows and blankets, he grinned and whispered, "Hey Mom, do you know why my bed is like that?" I couldn't guess. "I turned it into a machine to speed into the future!" he announced, giggling. "And it worked super well! Yeah, I hid under the covers, and it was four... what does the nine mean again?" He pointed at the clock propped up on his bookshelf, with the wooden face he painted himself and the handwritten numbers I outlined in gold so that they stand out on the dark blue background.
"Forty-five," I say.
"Yeah, four forty-five. And then when I came out it was... four... sixty... no fifty... where is the sixty again?"
We went over the minute-hand part of telling time again -- briefly, because it was past bedtime and I wanted to have time to read Dr. Seuss before lights out -- so I'm not sure that any of my explanation stuck. What I might have explained is that I have a mechanism for speeding into the future, the best ever invented perhaps : it's called having kids. And... I'm enjoying the ride.
[Le Petit told me this in French, as usual, so I'm doing my best to capture the spirit in English.]