The marketplace was too loud to read so I closed my book and watched him. He banged on the lid of the trash can, then giggled to no one in particular. As he mumbled a tune, he wiggled around hopping from one foot to the other. Probably needed to pee, I thought. He was likely at that stage where he insisted on dressing himself. Mothers learn quickly to pick their battles, and coordinating clothing is typically traded off for something more important. He was content wearing a mismatched striped outfit and playing his makeshift drum. We should all be so carefree.
Grace Grits and Gardening