He loves computer games. And when he finds one he loves he plays it all the time. And when he is not playing it, he wants to tell me about it.
All about it.
About how it works, about what he can do in the game, about the tutorials he's found on YouTube that explain how to play the game better. About all the minutia of a game that I don't understand and don't really even want to understand.
And he talks. And he talks. And he twists his hair while he's talking about it. He follows me from room to room talking about it. He even talks about it through a closed bathroom door. He keeps talking.
And I keep listening. Even as I am folding laundry, or making dinner, or taking out the trash, I am listening.
I usually don't understand a word he is telling me but I listen. I, honestly, am usually bored by what he is telling me. It's just a silly old computer game after all.
But I try to stop what I'm doing and look him in the eye and shake my head up and down while I am listening. I want him to know that I am listening.
And he continues to talk.
Why do I let him babble on and on about something I don't understand, something I'm not even too interested in?
I do it because one day I hope he will come to me with that same excitement and intensity and tell me about a science experiment he just did at school, or a joke a friend told him, or about a math problem he figured out all by himself.
I do it because one day I hope he will come to me with that same trust and expectation and tell me about something that a friend did that he knows isn't right, or tell me about a girl he's falling in love with, or tell me about a girl who has broken his heart.
I do it because one day I hope he will come to me with that same enthusiasm and confidence and tell me about an interesting class he's taking in college or tell me he thinks he's figured out what he wants to do with his life or tell me how that job interview went.
I keep listening now because I want him to keep talking later.