The other day Henry up and starts looking for his harmonica, just like that. "I need my harmonica," he says. "Help me look for it." I have things to do (I believe I was peeing, if you must know) so Scott helps him. He hasn't used his harmonica more than twice since he discovered his hands, and I suspect that as soon as he find the harmonica he'll forget what he was going to do with it, but at least the search keeps him busy. Eventually the harmonica is located in his bedside table, next to all the other doodads he hasn't seen since the last time he opened his bedside-table drawer two years ago.
He breathes into the harmonica for a while. It sounds like the harmonica has a disease. Scott runs away. "I need to be alone," Henry tells me. As I flee the environs, he adds, "I'm going to play this tomorrow morning. I'm going to play it very early, before you're awake. I'll be outside playing a tune. So if you're wondering where I am, I'm outside. Playing a tune. " This, mind you, is the first time he's ever mentioned "playing a tune," or being outside in the morning, or being anywhere in the morning. It was an afternoon of firsts, over here.
I could pretend that I was up early the next morning, listening for mournful harmonica wheezes coming from the yard. But I can't lie to you, Internet. I was sleeping. And our front door requires a key to unlock it from the inside, so Henry wasn't going anywhere. Not that he was awake.
I told my friend Wendy this anecdote, adding that I wished I could make it into a blog post but there didn't seem to be a point to it, and she claimed that his lovable eccentricity made it more than enough, so okay then. My work here is done. Thanks, Wendy!