Buzz is a hands in the dirt kind of boy. He’ll try to drag in anything from outside he can sneak past. Rocks, big sticks, small twigs, leaves, weeds, grass, mud, bugs, random scraps of trash found like treasure. He relishes in nature and it’s myriad of possibilities.
The other day, like many times before, a stick found its way inside our living room. Before I could throw it out the front door into the wild where it belongs like I normally would, Buzz began to protest. He grabbed it out of my hand then ran down the hall, returning a short time later with a blue cotton string, his little mind whirling.
He tried to wrap the string around the stick, but he hasn’t yet conquered the world of knots. Figuring out what he was attempting, I tied it at the end for him as his face lit up.
“Fishing pole!”, he exclaimed in creative jubilance.
He peered over the edge of the living room table, fishing pole firmly in hand. His line cast, dangling into the carpeted water below, he sat perched, waiting for the fish to bite the imaginary lure.
“I’m going fishing!”, he roared, as his blue cotton line began to tug at invisible weight. He struggled, reeling in that first prize with all his strength. The payoff for all his hard work was a larger-than-life, the ever elusive…
Mr. Potato Head?
“I caught it!”
Anything is possible.