I like my crayons broken. They are better that way. Like people, you can do more with them once they’ve been broken and the hard edges are worn down with love and time and attention.
Many many months ago, Sean and I sat down together to color for the first time. The crayon he was using immediately gave way under the pressure of his clumsy inexperienced hand. “I boke it!” he cried, holding up both pieces. “Fit it Mommy!” Not wanting to expose my inability to mend all that was amiss in his world just yet, I soothed him by breaking my crayon too and telling him that they work better that way. Then we went through the entire box breaking all the crayons in half. Since that day, Sean has made it his mission in life to leave no crayon unbroken. So take that as fair warning, you might not want us to come play at your house.
Last night, Sean and I were reading together before bedtime. He doesn’t actually read yet, but has memorized the words to every book he has which is somewhere in the triple digits. And that makes it hard to skip pages let alone paragraphs or even the occasional adjective. The book we were reading from last night was a collection of nursery rhymes, most of which I find to be rather disturbing. Three blind mice? And an axe-weilding crazy woman chasing rodents? That you would have agressive rodents in your house? If ever there were a recipie for night terrors. But nonetheless, there we sat side by side in his rocking chair reading about one boy playing with fire and another running through the town, alone and after dark, in his pajamas.
(Aside: I will be really sad when we can no longer fit in that chair side by side because one of us has grown too much.)
Anyway, I read “Jack and Jill went up the hill,” and he followed “to catch a pail of watt-ee.” I continued, “Jack fell down” and Sean piped up “and boke his cray-own. They’re better that way.”
Jack with a broken crayon is a much better image than Jack with a concussion, don’t you think? And they say you can’t improve upon the classics.