Aryeh, now 5, chooses. He'll climb the couch, accidentally knocking framed photos off the walls. He'll transform into a snarling velociraptor. Even when he doesn't mean to offend, he can't stop squirming, angling his prone, sprawling body into my path as I'm trying to cook dinner. Sleep is a waste of his time.
Meals taste better standing up.
Phone conversations with Nana are best conducted while walking in brisk, tight circles that exhaust not only him, but anyone watching from the sidelines. That is what we've given to Aryeh, in the form of books, word games, cooperative writing projects, and all the calming, creative banter our reading has inspired. But he has given something entirely different to me. Where I have presented him with language as medicine for the frenzied body and the agitated soul, he has given it back to me as pure candy. That's not the point.