I remember how my older son, Marty, loved to crawl and climb as a baby. He used to climb out of his crib at the end, make a leaping monkey jump to the dresser—a mere foot away—and then use the knobs on the drawers to descend to the floor. It wasn’t just acrobatics but an early sign of his adventurous spirit.
In the quiet hours of the night, when the house was draped in soft shadows, Marty would pad-step his tiny toes to the cupboard in the kitchen, ensuring that he did not wake me. One fateful night, he discovered the container of sugar. With the innocence only a toddler possesses, he sat right in the middle of the tile floor and began drawing diagrams in the sugar with his fingers—circles upon circles.
And when I walked into the room, he smiled at me as if to say, “Behold, my first art class! Isn’t it magnificent?” That was Marty’s first—and last—drawing class before he grew up to love baseball and football more than drawing sugar art on the floor.
