Bumpy

Our city recently installed speed bumps in our neighborhood. I hate speed bumps despite the horrifying speeds at which people fly past the houses -- but that is a rant for another day.

As I drive over the speed bumps in the car, I say, "Bumpy!" to Fly in the back. And when Fly, JP and I are out for our nightly walk and we wheel Fly's stroller over the bumps, we say, "Bumpy!"

Now Fly has started saying bumpy. Not only that, but he knows the locations of all the speed bumps. He can point in the correct direction and tell me that Bumpy lives that-a-way.

He also has found great bumpy places to drive his toy cars over, like the top of a misshapen, dimpled box. And on the track that JP put together for Fly for his 2nd birthday last month, there are a couple areas of bumpy track -- his second favorite part of the setup after the bridges.

Fly's bumpy obsession doesn't stop there. He wants to explore every non-smooth, nonlinear object or area -- a manhole cover, rocks in the garden, the back of my legs.

The kid lives for bumpy.

And when Fly says the word, it can also sound just like another word he learned recently, pumpkin. Or -- for some reason -- tractor. (I can identify the slight nuances in his toddler dialect.)

This is how it occurred to me Fly has already learned that, in life, bumpy is more interesting than smooth. Something is more appealing than nothing. A flaw = fascinating; perfect = boring. Bumpy is what sells novels, movie tickets and cosmetics. Bumpy is what drives us up the wall about the people we love, even though we love them anyway. Bumpy makes us real. Bumpy is what makes us want to set goals, to achieve or to overcome. Basically, bumpy makes the world go 'round.

And I guess I have the city -- and all those speeders -- to thank for that.