The Inventor

"Elan!"
"What?"
"You okay?"
"Yeah!"
"Come hang out in here with me."
"I can't! I'm busy."
"With what?"
"Making a Fancy New Ball!"

Um.

"Okay!"
"I'll come when I'm finished!"

It's Saturday morning and I'm in PJs on the couch, gazing at the backyard and reading Jonathan Safran Foer's second novel, "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close." Foer is truly one of the (maybe few) geniuses of our generation, and at only 50 or so pages in, I'm enjoying the book immensely. Y took Ariel to shul, and Elan is in his room, suspiciously quiet.

But apparently, he's just busy making a Fancy New Ball. I miss his company - when my children are calm, I'm content just to have them in the same room as me sometimes. To study them when they're completely unaware of it. But I also both understand and respect the need to finish the creative process in solitude.

The creative process has been a big part of Elan's life this past month. My father got Elan a Magna-Doodle when he was three, but only recently has he come to really enjoy it. Lately, Elan's been obsessed with drawing, and while I have no idea how he compares to other kids his age, I'm very impressed with what seems to be his natural ability. He now understands that his capabilities are as limitless as his imagination, and spends hours thinking up different animals and mythical creatures and then perfecting their rudimentary likenesses on paper or Doodle. And then, undoubtedly for the acclaim, he shows them to me:

"Can you BELIIIIIEVE I did this?"

"Wow. It's...It's...What is it?"
"A Fiery-Red Combustible Dragon!"
"Well. Clearly."
"See, here's his spikes, here's the fire he's breathing..."
"I do see. That's terrific, Elan. How'd you do it?"
"I just - imagined it in my head, what it would look like, and somehow I know-ded how to make it with my hands!"
"Really great."
"Aren't I an amazing artist?"

Once, Ariel watched over his shoulder as Elan drew what was (quite obviously) a Nickel-Backed Spotted French Tortoise, and murmured with admiration, "You're a really good artist, Elan."

And, as we had just started a rewards chart the night before, Elan spun around to face me and asked, "Should he get a star for that?"

Most creative people live for praise. Why should he be any different?

Today, Elan finally comes into the family room where I am firmly planted, and stands with a very suspenseful look on his face, hands behind his back.

"Are. You. Ready..." he begins, full of drama. "To see my Fancy New Ball? What I created?"

"I'm ready," I reply, not really sure that I am. Elan's "esperiments" often involve live insects.

"Ta-DA!" He whips his hands out from behind his back to reveal a bouncing ball, soft with molding clay, resembling a globe.

"See, I took an ordinary ball," he explains. "And I carefully covered it with colorful clay, and now it's Fancy. And New. And you know how this ball makes noise when I bounce it and you hate that noise all the time? Well, the clay on top makes it not so loud!"

An esperiment that muffles an annoying noise? I'm listening.

I put down the book. We sit on the floor across the room from one another, legs apart, and roll the ball back and forth between us for twenty minutes, discussing both its Fanciness and its Newness. And life, in general. (Did you know Kevin can be really bossy?)

Finally, I sigh and stand up, stretching lazily. "I better set the table for lunch." We are having friends over in an hour and I haven't yet done a thing in preparation.

But he isn't finished.

"Have you seen my Abrea Tar Pits yet?" Elan asks, excited to have my full, undivided attention.
"No, I'm not sure I have. What's that?"
"Well, you know how one of my butterflies died-ed?"

We'd done one of these Discovery Store grow-kits, where you buy minuscule caterpillars and watch them, over a course of weeks, grow fat and furry, form cocoons and eventually emerge as butterflies. Elan had taken admirable care of them, carefully feeding them fresh flowers and orange slices to sip from, but one of the four still didn't make it. I never asked what he did with the corpse.

Now, I suddenly wondered.

"Yes?" I say cautiously.

"Well." Elan gleams with pride. "I made my own Abrea Tar Pits in the backyard, and I fossilized the butterfly. It's so cool, you just won't be able to handle it!"

Somehow, I believe that last part.

Hand in hand, we venture onto the patio. Elan points at a plastic, child-sized table and chair set we generally use for picnics. "See that chair?" I see it: It's caked with mud.

"That's my tar pits. The tar seals it off so it won't get wet when it rains."

(?!!)

"And here," he gestures with flourish, "is my dead butterfly!"

I wince, peering through slitted eyelids, bracing myself for something disgusting. But it is actually - pretty cool. Through the mounds of tightly-packed earth, the outline of a decorative wing is almost embossed. It does look like a fossil.

Pretty cool. And yes, a little gross. But still.

"When did you do this?" I ask, genuinely curious, as he gently runs a finger over the silouhette.

"The other day when Sarah [our babysitter] was here. I thought I told you about it. I guess I forgot. Isn't it cool?"

"It really is," I agree, although what I'm thinking is, YOU are so cool.

After all, we hadn't been to the La Brea Tar Pits since last summer, and the butterfly kit was a toy with an expiration date. We sure as hell get our money's worth with this crap.

"Are the rest of the butterflies doing okay?" I'm suddenly filled with maternal concern.

"Oh, I letted them all go when I saw this one had died-ed," he replies.

And I'm struck with the thought that teaching children life lessons is empowering and all, but it's so much better when they figure them out themselves.