A tale of lost lint

We went to a great place today near town called Westcave Preserve. As its name implies, there is a cave, and it is to the west, at least if you stand in a certain place to the east of it. It was a trip for TH's second grade class, and his teacher invited me along as (a) homeroom mom and (b) a scientist who might recognize some of the flora or fauna or do something sciency along the way. I did my best to oblige, spotting a beautiful little Anolis, a nest of phoebes, and an amazing cottonmouth making his way through his relatively untouched watery abode.

This is TH's element, the outdoors. Our grizzly guide--white hair, leathered skin, gruff manner, deep knowledge, a way with managing second-graders that really had them at attention--asked the class at one point to do something he'd "bet they've never done before." That something was to stand very still and just listen to nature. I guess that might apply to some kids, but not to TH. TH has had his ear to the ground, listening to Nature's heartbeat, since he could kneel.

His bestest friend ever was on the trip (they're in the same class), and they're still at that age where they can walk together, even hold hands without feeling self conscious, without any of their classmates noticing or commenting or making fun of them. It was really very sweet. But at one point, the bestest friend ever (I'd make this into the acronym BFE, but...well, that kinda means something else around here) bumped TH's hand and knocked something out of it. The group was moving, and we didn't have a chance to look for it, and anyway TH was a tad vague about what it was. Some kind of ball was all I could get out of him.

After our return, after we had lunch at the picnic tables in the increasing warmth of this April day, TH insisted that we go back to that spot and try to find "it." "What IS it?" I asked, completely lost. He put a hand in his short's pocket and pulled out...a tiny ball of lint.

"It's a ball of lint?" I asked, obviously incredulous. "Yes," he said, and he did it with a look I'd last seen when his favorite fuzzy blanket was accidentally locked up in a Gymboree after a birthday party. I knew that look. I'd already recognized what was becoming a fine but increasingly rare example of his capacity for perseveration. We went back to the path to search for the ball of lint.

We did not find it.

TH became teary. He turned to me and clung to me and actually started to cry. He really really liked that ball of lint.

It's been awhile since I've seen that level of perseveration, and it's been a REALLY long while since I've seen that level of attachment to an inanimate object. His past includes strong attachments for things like eggs, acorns, and...more acorns...but he'd never indicated a yearning for a good ball of pocket lint. I think that for him, it was sort of like a comforting "fidget," something he did with his hands to alleviate anxiety. He does this still--as do all three of our children--with the edge of his fuzzy blanket, blindly feeling for that "perfect spot" to rub between his thumb and forefinger.

Our oldest son rarely cries. A girl in his class clocked him on the head with a large rock last week, and he related the story and said, almost with surprise, that it made him get a "little tear in his eye." This lost ball of lint drew out several very real tears. Obviously, the lint far outweighed the rock in importance and in its capacity to cause pain.

We never found the lint. I offered up some other lint from other pockets. We'll see if a suitable substitute ball of lint exists. In the meantime, we went after school to take advantage of today's Ben and Jerry's free scoop of ice cream offer. It wasn't a ball of lint, but the capacity of chocolate to soothe and heal is, I firmly believe, almost infinite.

**I am truly amazed that as I went to add labels for this post, I already had made labels for ice cream, acorns, and snakes. Obviously, our lives have their specific leitmotifs.