Breaking the Bank

B (my son) got a piggybank when he was born. My husband and I picked it out one lazy summer's trip to Toys R Us.

It was selected from dozens as we browsed through the shelves. Most were personalized, had the most common of names written out in pastel, gummy letters on the side. The only one with his name was purple, which my husband though was too "ridiculous" a color for such a masculine bank.

So we chose the red pig, with race cars and flags flying high. My father-in-law (an avid fan of NASCAR) was thrilled, and bestowed the first quarter in its hungry little belly.

This afternoon, when I came home, B was naked as the babe he is, playing in the bouncer. it shakes violently, wobbling with the exuberance of youth, as he stretched his arms to embrace the air before him, begging for hugs.

He wanted to play, but I was tired and in need of refreshment. So I grab the first thing at hand... the piggybank.

I plunked it down on the edge of his saucer, to see how he would react. I never expected him to react as he did.

His eyes lit up. They sparkled with absolute delight. He straightened his back, threw his head out in front, and sucked in his pudgy little belly. He stuck his chest out and shook like a leaf. And then... he snatched at the piggy, and squealed with glee.

The floor itself vibrated with the intensity of his bouncing. He wobbled and wiggled and wormed that poor little pig around and around. until, of course, he pushed it over the edge to fall to its noisy demise.

He looked at the pig, its lifeblood of change strewn out on the floor, one little eye rolling around, and then he turned to me, confusion on his face.

I picked up the red little pig, collected his pennies, and returned him to the bouncer, and the drama began again.