Edison is the smartest person I know. He always has been. Before he was two, he could point out that the moon was crescent-shaped, and today, he can do math and logic problems that make me feel like Patrick Star, relatively speaking. But he’s not perfect. In fact, he is the most disorganized person I know.
It drives Manfrengensen and me crazy. Every project is left until the very last minute; he can never find anything. He’s more of a big-picture guy, and the details, well, they are just not that important to him. The toothpaste cap is always off; socks are left where removed; Wii remotes and other items are always being sought in frustration. He tends to begin things with grand plans, and often leaves them abandoned where he has begun them, which is frequently the kitchen table.
I came in this morning from dropping Clooney at his bus stop. Edison’s bus had already passed to go to the top of the road before coming back to get him. Edison was in a panic because he couldn’t find his shoes. He had checked the basement, the family room, the living room, the hall closet and his own room to no avail. I suggested that they might be in Clooney’s room since Edison had just worn them yesterday and the boys went up there after church. He went up and still couldn’t find them.
“Did you look in your closet?” I asked.
But after looking there, he still didn’t find them or his Vans, which often serve as alternates in cases like these, which are frequent.
So, I said, knowing that his bus was on approach, “Are there any other shoes up there you can use?” There might be some shoes from last year, or even the ones he wore for Christmas. It wouldn’t matter (at least to me) if they were too small, he needed to go.
“Oh, wait,” he said. “There they are.” In the closet.
The last place he looks is always the place things are supposed to be. So he put on his shoes, I kissed him goodbye, and he flew out the door. I love my mad, mad genius.