“Don’t eat this one,” my four and a half year-old son told me, pointing to a Granny Smith on the table. It was one among dozens we’d over-picked at the orchard.
“Does it have a bad spot?” I asked.
“No, there’s a needle in it.”
I peered at the innocent-looking apple. A tiny brown dot on a sea of green skin was all that betrayed the danger lurking inside. A dot I would have missed had he not brought it to my attention. My son can detect a sharp object in our home like his sister can sniff out a hidden birthday present. Where had I left a needle within his reach?
“Thanks for letting me know, ” I said, in as Montessori a voice as I could muster.
I needed a place to stash the apple safely until I could retrieve the tiny steel shaft. On tiptoes, our kids can now grasp objects on the highest living room shelf and on the mantel. So the top of the refrigerator has become our home’s Elba for familial ne’er-do-wells: sharp objects, fire-starters, and fought-after toys. Among the current exiles: a remote-control bumblebee, a groaning ziplock of Halloween candy, and a butane stove-lighter. I half-expected the objects to whistle a cat-call to the new prisoner as I set it down.
As with most work I do that requires concentration, I waited until after the children were in bed to tackle the apple. “Check this out,” I said to my husband. With a paring knife I cut into the fruit at a 30-degree angle on both sides of the brown speck. Shimmying the wedge up the length of the needle, it eased loose a little, but not much. It was submerged to the core.
What my son had done was magnificent. He’d aimed to hurt no one, of this I was sure. He was just tempted by the apple, like Eve. I imagined the electrons in his brain doing a Double McTwist 1260 as they jumped between the apple neuron and the needle neuron. The next day he and I had a chat about food safety, without any finger-wagging. Afterward, I watched him skip away, the boy who taught a needle how to be a splinter.
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Trust that still, small voice that says, “This might work and I’ll try it.” — Diane Mariechild
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