The Little Monster made a simple sock puppet at school. I’ve watched him play with a variety of other puppets. He’s gifted at imitating the animal voices and bringing the critters to life, and his pretend-play with puppets must be therapeutic. He has a turtle puppet, but it’s off limits for the moment until I can figure out how to wash it—you don’t want to know what’s on it.
Seeing LM play with his dingy, handmade sock puppet might seem a little Dickensian if you saw him on a bus. Poor child has only shabby socks to play with! You’d know better if you saw his bottomless toy chest that magically fills no matter how many Goodwill drop-off runs I make. I’m sure he’ll embarrass me by showing Timmy the Sock to our social worker.
The day LM brought the sock puppet home, the Man I Married put LM to bed because I was out drinking at a book discussion group. LM wanted to bring Timmy to bed, but MIM wisely told him that Timmy would be too much of a distraction, and that it was time to go to sleep; he’d see Timmy in the morning. MIM tucked the Little Monster in and escorted Timmy out of the bedroom.
Awhile later, MIM heard a variety voices coming from LM’s bedroom.
“Gosh darn it,” he said to himself (I’m translating from the French). He gently put down his book on tractors and tools to go investigate, patiently making his way back to LM’s bedroom, where, like Grandpa Walton, he would good-naturedly ask LM what in tarnation he was up to? (Still translating.)
He opened the door, and there was LM lying in bed, in the dark, hand up in the puppet position, carrying on as if Timmy were really there.
Could there be a more moving puppet show?