Baby ate a cockroach egg last night.
At least, he tried to. C noticed and got it out. But the lil' one must have gotten a taste.
Yuck, ewww! Really and truly.
But then, I got thinking. He ate it because he didn't know he wasn't supposed to. He doesn't know what bad is. Or evil. Or lies. Or hate.
He doesn't know, what it is, you see, to be all grown-up and knowing what is right and wrong. And who is good and bad.
That's why, when he sees a white-haired gentleman, he says "Ajja".
How can I tell him then, that I'm afraid not all "Ajjas" are safe to be around. That in our adultness, we've lost the capacity to trust infinitely and innocently. That we can't really, because we've corrupted ourselves too much.
That's why, even if I whack him and shout at him in my pettiness, he'll screw up his face and bawl his heart out. And then hold his arms out to me. And that's when I feel miserably small and just like that cockroach egg.
That's why he can't understand why he can't eat paper. Well, it's there, isn't it?
That's why, when he's sleeping, he really is pure pureness and innocence.
And that's why he ate that cockroach egg.