The first couple of weeks, Tanner had a hard time remembering what to do. We would walk to the edge of the street, and I would wait for him to look both ways. Instead he just stood next to me, his eyes only moving to look up at my face and laugh at my silly expression. Finally I'd shift from Goofy to Mr. Party Pooper -- pointing both ways to help Tanner understand. But he simply giggled, slapping my shoulder with a soft hand. "Tanner, what do we need to do before we cross the street?" I would ask kindly, pleading with him in my mind to move his eyes to either side of the road. Sometimes he would. But those first couple of weeks, we stood there until snack time. Tanner was probably wondering why I was acting so weird. I was just wondering what he was wondering. And there we stood as minutes fell down into the gutter.
I found out this summer that patience pays. The last day of work, Tanner and I stood at the street's edge, and I looked across to behold the Promised Land -- the playground with Tanner's green slide. I looked at Tanner, hoping that he would fulfill his goal. Almost casually, Tanner threw his finger to point to one side of the street as his eyes followed. "Car," he said. Then he pointed to the other side. "Car," he repeated. I wanted to jump for joy, scream out in celebration. Tanner had gotten the goal. We did celebrate -- walking across the street to the green slide was good enough for the both of us.
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