Fruition

Sometimes you plant and stake and tend and weed and water and worry, and at the end of the summer you get to harvest a bunch of beautiful tomatoes. Congratulations, Andrew!

Sometimes you measure and saw and drill and hammer and drive to the hardware store and come back and saw and hammer and drill some more, weekend after weekend, for months. And then the day comes when you look out the window and there's a treehouse out there full of kids laughing and shrieking and carrying on, and a bucket of goldfish crackers is being hauled up on a pulley, and there's a pirate flag hanging off the rail.

Sometimes you stare balefully at a chain link fence every time you walk by it for a year and a half, and then one day you pull together the tools and the extension cords and the coffee and bagels and people -- and four hours later, the fence is gone.

And sometimes you make an offhand joke like, "Simon, how about you make the coffee some time?" And the next morning (a Sunday) at twelve past six, Simon is standing over your bed with the coffee pot in his hand and a giant, hopeful smile on his face.

And then you are standing -- reluctantly, groggily -- in the kitchen, supervising an extremely determined seven-year-old in race-car pajamas who insists that even though he can barely see over the countertop, he can so use the coffee grinder, and pack the Bialetti just right, and screw the top on tight enough, and turn on the gas stove safely, and pour the milk without spilling, and program the microwave correctly, and listen for the burbling sound that means the coffee's ready, and handle the hot pot with a potholder, and blend steaming milk and coffee in just the right proportions, and stir in not too much sugar, and mix up the OJ, and bring in the newspaper, and carry the fully loaded tray up the stairs.

And mostly -- with minimal supervision on the part of a bleary-eyed parent -- he can.