His Dogness

Doobins had been lobbying to go to the library for several days. A time to do that had not opened up. In the middle of a recent Saturday afternoon, it did.

So, we got shoes and coats on Doobins and Sparkle Girl and climbed into the car. If I wanted to take the shortest route to the library, the thing to do would have been to turn the car around. But, sometimes, when the car is headed in the wrong direction, it just seems like less trouble to drive down to the end of the block and turn there. That’s the way it felt this time.

I had just started down the street, when Doobins, whose car seat is directly behind me, said, “Hey! Hey! This isn’t the way to the library.” (Upon reflection, my mind might have added the “Hey! Hey!” part later for effect. But I’m sure about the “This isn’t the way to the library” part.)

I assured him that this way would get us there, too.

Ever since I have known Sparkle Girl and Doobins, Sparkle Girl has had an excellent sense of space and direction. If I take an alternate route somewhere, she might ask whether we’re still going where we’re going, just in case I have changed plans without keeping her fully informed.

And, as we drive around, she might comment that this is the way to her cousins’ house after we turn onto a different street. She’s always right.

But I had never heard Doobins say anything that indicated he had taken note of how we get from one place to another. When I told the story to my friend Mike, he said that I now have a new backseat driver.

True. The day may come when I wish that Doobins would keep his opinions on how to get somewhere to himself. But, on this particular Saturday, I was really happy to witness him showing signs of a growing understanding of how our world is put together.

I missed Doobins’ jump from scribbling to representation drawing by a few hours. Doobins has always been a really good scribbler. Like Sparkle Girl, he has a good color sense. But, until a couple of weeks ago, he had never drawn pictures with identifiable subjects.

Then, one day, he was expressing frustration to his mother that he couldn’t draw something.

Sure, he could, she said.

She gave him a couple of pointers, something clicked, and he spent the next couple of hours drawing one picture after another, pausing only long enough to call out something to the effect of, “Woman, bring me another sheet of paper!”

It was a mild day, and, later, he and Sparkle Girl went outside and drew on the sidewalk. When I came over after work, he showed me the bridge he had drawn on the sidewalk. A fine bridge it was.

Going from incoherent scribbles to building a sturdy bridge in a single day. That’s quite a day.