It Takes No Time

The living room is the crossroads of Thomas the Tank Engine's and Radiator Springs, cars and trains jumbled together in everything a four year old boy could possibly want out of life. To this I added my laptop.

My godchild believes the sole function of a $1500 piece of machinery is to display pictures of him. In a way, he is absolutely correct. The screen saver function is an ever-changing slide show of all the pictures squirreled away in various folders and files, and most of these happen to contain his face in nearly every aspect an attitude from birth through yesterday afternoon.

Today I set the media player on Ambiance of High, a slowly evolving splash of color and sound. It is designed to arrest the attention of everyone who is drunk, or beneath the age of four. At first I tried to find some age-appropriate Buffett, but, failing this, simply allowed the player to make its choice.

What it chose was Jimmy Eat World. Automatically deeming the rush of instruments and beat as overwhelming for a person who still announces the fact that he is about to pee, I reached over to hit the skip button, but between there and the next song I caught sight of my nephew bouncing in time to the beat.

"Do you want to dance to this?"

"Dance!"

Dancing for Jim The Small Child Nephew is a grimly serious business; he takes both hands of his partner and spins in an elliptical circle, brow furrowed with concentration. This time, however, he opted for freestyle dancing, which involved running in a circle around his train table while his baby brother, seizing the day, grabbed for the engines he was usually denied when his elder was in the room.

I ran in a circle opposite him, and this was a great novelty, for he shrieked each time our paths crossed. "Don't get all sweaty," his uncle cautioned me from the couch. "You're giving a speech tonight."

"And changing clothes first," I told him, skidding around again. "I'd rather be a good aunt and need a shower than boring but sweet-smelling."