I doubt that I still have a copy. But the book about Grover exploring Everything in the Whole Wide World Museum was a keeper. Today I was sorting the medley of objects on the coffee table. It has been littered with mail, wool, pens, buttons, bills, thread, and books for the past few weeks. I was always bustling with getting things done and neglected clean up. But this morning I shuffled them back to their rightful spots, and as I collected the long, thin things I recalled that page in the paperback. Grover discovered a carrot among the other long, thin things and while it was indeed long and thin it would be better housed with vegetables. He took it there and tucked it by the potatoes. 

 

Children probably enjoy such games of organization, as they try to decipher the unpredictability of us grown ups. Why is it that we insist on putting silverware in one drawer, and the ice cream scoop in another? Why is broccoli considered healthy while green gumdrops are not? How is it that jammies are perfectly fine to sleep in but a visit to Grandma's requires the scratchy sweater? 

 

We adults do our own version of sorting, which probably mystifies the younger set. I recall Christmases when my objective was to decorate the tree. Correction... to have the tree be decorated. My young children were more engaged in picking up each tiny angel and star and snowman, introducing themselves and auditioning several spots on the lowest branches before settling on placement. They also leaned toward clustering many ornaments together rather than spreading them out.  

 

In my rush to complete the tasks, I categorized delays as bad, and efficiency as good. My children saw things differently. Extra time in the waiting room at the doctor meant more time with fresh toys. Too quick a drive to the park might mean they didn't hear the whole story tape. 

 

One thing I am learning is to recategorize the events around me. And within me, for that matter. The other day John interrupted me, something I usually don't blink at, but this time it derailed my thoughts. I was annoyed. In that moment I understood how it is for him, when I burst forth with instructions when he is focused on finishing an email. Rather than calling it an affront, it became a window. 

 

I may go hunting on the shelves for a copy of Grover's adventures. I can read it to my granddaughter on zoom. She is still young enough to believe that efficiency has no bearing on an afternoon of lining up the gumdrops.