Do you really want to hear anymore about the first 100 days? I didn't think so. Here is a short, short story I wrote for my little boy (when he was a little boy, long ago).
This is a story about a little boy called Dawdle. His real name was Benjamin B. Benjamin, but everyone called him Dawdle, because that is what he did best. Even his mother called him Dawdle. When they went to the grocery store she would say, “Come on Dawdle, don’t dawdle.” But Dawdle couldn’t help dawdling any more than he could help his unruly red hair or his bright blue eyes. By the time his mother was buying bread, Dawdle was still staring into the meat counter. When she arrived at the canned goods, Dawdle was still looking at the bread, and when she got as far as the vegetable counter Dawdle had only arrived at the canned soups.
“Hurry up Dawdle, I’m ready to go,” his mother would say. Then she would have to wait by the door while Dawdle examined the cleaning supplies, the fresh flowers, the candy display, the ice cream freezer, the breakfast food, and finally the exit itself.
“He’s as slow as molasses in January,” his grandmother observed. “When I come to stay with him I wonder how you put up with it. He won’t even come in for lunch. He just sits out there watching this and that and only comes when he’s ready. I’ve never seen a child dawdle like that in all my life.”
“You can’t even take him for a walk,” Dawdle’s father complained. “He stops every few feet and examines everything: every leaf, every stick, every rock, every blade of grass. I just don’t know what to do with him”
Dawdle, of course, was always late for school. When his friends walked quickly so as not to be late, Dawdle fell behind. “Come on Dawdle, we’ll be late.” They urged. But Dawdle did not seem to hear them, so intent was he to watch the wind in the trees or the leaves falling silently to the ground.
“Dawdle,” said his teacher, “Why are you always late? Everyone else gets here on time. Why can’t you be like everyone else?” Dawdle did not answer. He just stood there looking out the window at the falling snowflakes.
“You can stay after school again today,” said the angry teacher. “Perhaps you’ll be on time tomorrow.”
All the other children liked Dawdle. But no one could understand him. When they chose up teams to play games Dawdle was always the last one chosen. “He’s too slow,” they said. “He doesn’t pay attention. The ball goes right past him. He’s not there when you need him. He daydreams.”
Older boys made fun of him. They called him slowpoke. When they passed him on the street they sang, “Yankee Doodle Dawdle,” or Doodle Oodle Dawdle All Day.” No one could make him change.
“Go sit in the corner,” ordered the teacher. Perhaps you will pay attention next time.” The other children laughed as they always did. Dawdle didn’t care. He sat there calmly studying the corner itself. Then, after a time, he smiled his secret smile. He didn’t mind what they said about him. He had seen the end of a rainbow. He knew how the spider spun its web, where the field mice made their homes, where the squirrels stored their food, where the birds made their nests, and how the baby birds learned to fly. He knew how the little tadpoles grew into frogs and where the deer hid their babies. He knew how flowers grew in the Spring, and where he could find the first pussy willows for his mother. He liked it when she picked him up and kissed him.