We went to Denny’s—the bad one—on Saturday. I excused myself to use the restroom, and nearly opened the door into the face of a ten-year-old boy. His grandfather was washing his hands, and his younger brother was loitering beneath the paper towel dispenser.
‘See, what did I just tell you,’ said Grandpa, over his shoulder. ‘You have to pay attention. You have to watch where you’re standing. That man almost knocked you over.’
I smiled at the boy. ‘I have a four-year-old son, and I have to tell him the same thing.’
And I suddenly realized that I do, have a four-year-old son. That I’m constantly reminding him to look up, look out, watch where he’s going, think before he moves, see you almost ran into that woman. My smile faltered.
Ian is four, this boy was ten. At least. I’m only able to accurately guess a child’s age when Ian reaches that age himself. He could’ve been eleven or twelve, thirteen. I don’t do math, but even I had no problem quickly realizing just how many years I’ll be steering my son away from door jambs and open manholes.
My smile vanished as I realized this was a grandfather. With his grandsons. So just when I can relax, and trust that Ian’s spatial perception won’t lead him into oncoming traffic—or that his health insurance will bridge the gap—I’ll have to contend with the wavering steps of grandchildren.
Anyone know how NERF’s stock is doing?