"Does ice cream have a smell?"
Five-year-old Davey looked up at me, with ice cream smeared all over his hands and face. He held the cone in his left hand, his stubby fingers grasping it as if it were a trophy awarded to him for being the most accomplished ice-cream eater in the world. His eyes became wider, and an impatient scowl made its way across his chubby face.
"Well...does it?" he asked again, his childish voice rising an octave on the word 'it.'
Children are such fascinating little people. They have a natural curiosity factor that makes them want to know every last detail; from why trees change color to the differences in ocean water from tap water. Teenagers and adults are different. They're always on the go, traveling like whirlwinds trying to pay their bills or get the newest popular gadget. The details are always overlooked. Davey was an exceptionally inquisitive boy. He once asked me why I had never taken the time to smell ice cream; I just went straight to eating.
"I don't know Davey, why don't we smell it and find out?" I answered him in my best little baby voice. Like the curiosity factor that children have embedded in them, older folks have the "cute" voice that is activated whenever a conversation is taking place with a person under the age of 7.
"All gone!" he answered jovially. The doorbell rang, and through the clear glass door we could both see that it was his mother, coming home from work. Davey clapped his hands together and ran to the door, completely forgetting the question he had asked just five minutes before. I was envious of him. His ability to shift gears so easily without a care in the world was one I could really use when it came to stressful classes like Calculus. He was so innocent, so carefree. I never wanted him to grow up and face the harsh realities of the world. Death, war, disease, corruption...all of these were too strong for his fragile little soul.
"Thanks for babysitting, Julia. Money's on the table," his mom said, with her Blackberry pressed up against her face with one hand and an iced coffee and brief case in the other. Davey tugged on her skirt, trying to direct her attention to the finger paint masterpiece he made today. She shot him a scowl and continued to talk on her phone. Arguing about her stock options, I assumed.
"Thank you. It was a pleasure. See you tomorrow, Davey." I wish I could have taken him with me as I left the house, removed him from his mother's coldness and given him an environment full of the attention he deserved.
But I couldn't. Right?