obsessive

About a year ago I documented our Clive’s small, tiny, teensy-weeny obsession.

I’m here today to say that nothing has changed.

I happened upon him in the sitting room the other day, with a Cars book…and two of his Cars toys…wearing a Cars shirt…

I said, “Hang on Clivey, I’ll be right back.”

He was happy to oblige. “Mama, take a pich-er of my book.”

“Mama, take a pich-er of McQueen.”

“Mama, take a pich-er of my teef.”

“Mama, take a pich-er of my belly.”

Clive’s very happy to be photographed these days.

I have always called Clivey my bulldog. As an infant, he was somewhat persnickety and inflexible. As he grew, I realized that what I had assumed was fastidiousness was actually a deep-set self-assurance and unwavering opinion on basically everything. With my other children, I could usually distract them from their wants or woes. Not Clive. He held onto everything with an astonishing tenacity. A little bulldog. He didn’t let things go easily.

Oh Clivey, my prayer for you has always been that you would have that tenacity for Truth. That you would not settle for half-truths or flattering philosophies; that you would not be swayed by what sounds good, but search incessantly for what is Good. And when you find it, I pray that you sinks in your teeth and lock your jaws and hold on for dear life.