David is at the far end of potty training, going without a diaper allday and wearing one at night for only for safety’s sake. Thestanding up part of the job he can do entirely on his own, but he’sstill little enough that he needs a hand in order to sit on the toiletand not slip in. Before he went to bed tonight I was keeping himcompany, and keeping him balanced, in the upstairs bathroom, when henoticed a few books on the bottom shelf of the incidentals stand. They are old books, part of a series of works by great poets, and thenames, written in gold script, caught his eye. He wanted to knowwhose names they were, and then what was in them. I told him JohnKeats and Alfred Lord Tennyson wrote them and they were poems. Hewanted to know if I knew Keats or Tennyson, and I told him no, theylived a long time ago. He asked to see the words, and when Ishowed them the pages of numbered verse in tiny print, he commentedthat they looked "gray." Then he wanted to hear some. I startedwith Keats, which David liked about as little as I do. (I keep Keats inthe bathroom in hopes that with enough repeated exposure I might beginto appreciate what so many others so easily see in him.) Afterone sonnet he asked for the Tennyson instead. I picked the bit onthe Holy Grail from "Idylls of the King," and I tell you, David wasengrossed. When I finished the part where the monk recognizesPercival as one of Arthur’s knights and questions him about the Grail,David pondered for a moment and then asked, "But, Daddy, why did thecup disappear?" He had clearly not accepted Percival’ssimple explanation that the Grail had been removed by God because the worldhad grown too evil and was probing for a deeper, maybe extratextualanswer. I gave a shot at trying to explain what I thought lay atthe roots of the Grail legend and how it related to what I reallybelieve about God and to what Tennyson might have been trying to sayabout the decline of Camelot and humanity, butDavid clearly knew I was just winging it. Got him to the end of his business in high spirits though. Tennyson is likely rolling in his grave at having been used in such a matter. But I wouldn’t let it worry you Alfred. It’s Mr. Keats who should really feel underappreciated.
(There, worked the opportunity to dote on my son’s literary sensibilities and potty skills in one post!)
