Infinity is everywhere

A true love story from my pre-Mom life.

“Erin, what do you love? Not like. L-O-V-E.”

So infrequently has a guy expressed such fervent interest in my passions. My nose crinkles. What if my answer falls flat?

“For example, I love kohlrabi. And music,” he says between bites of quinoa. Kohl-whaty? I’m out of my depth.

He gazes at me with soft, incandescent eyes and waits for my mind to spin. The silence slices deep, but he doesn’t even blink. Just smiles slightly out of the right side of his mouth.

“Well, I haven’t really thought about it before. But off the top of my head, I guess I love words,” I say.

My head tilts toward the crown molding and I realize I’m holding my breath.

He nods furiously, and the tight curls on the top of his head tumble in every direction. His hair is a mess of golden twirls. It’s clear he hasn’t brushed it in weeks. Maybe ever.

“I love words, too. My favorite word is ‘ghwerngshtenburnahsham’.” One giggle slips through with the last nonsensical syllable, and I realize he’s much more interested in where the conversation takes us than finding the truth in it.

“Interesting. I don’t know that one. What does it mean?” I stroke my chin to show I’m all in on his conversational meandering.

“Well...it’s the number just before infinity.”

Seven brain cells collapse under the weight of a concept I’d never even considered. What is the number just before infinity? Now I’m not just out of my depth—I’m in uncharted theoretical waters.

He takes my hand.

“Do you want to count to ‘ghwerngshtenburnahsham’ with me?”

I pull back.

“Oh...that’s impossible. Are you finished with dinner? It’s getting late. We should get ready for bed.” Every word bumps into the next.

His hand gently taps my lips.

“We can do it, Erin. I’ll show you. Don’t worry. I’ll start. One...”, he holds up two fingers to invite me in.

“Two…” I can’t say no to that mischievous face.

“Three…”

We volley through 80, 90, 100. I begin to fidget.

I wait for him to spit out 101, but instead, he takes a deep breath and throws his arms in the air.

“Ghwerngshtenburnahsham!” He shouts as he hugs me with his whole body.

“But 101 comes after 100. Not ghwerngshtenburnahsham,” I insist.

“Well, infinity is everywhere. And since ‘ghwerngshtenburnahsham’ comes right before that, it can be everywhere too. So, tonight, it’s right after 100.”

Before I can say anything, he slides out of his booster seat and pads away from the dining table in his grippy socks.

“Where are you going?”

“You said it’s bedtime. Can I wear my new dinosaur pajamas? Mommy said I could before she left with Daddy for date night.”

“You got it.”

I zip his marker-stained legs into his blue and green footies of choice and tuck him in with his dear stuffed animal, Figment.

“One more hug?” He pleads as I curl the bottom of the blanket around his feet.

I lean down.

His heart against my cheek, I feel the thumps.

1,2. 3,4. 5,6. Ghwerngshtenburnahsham, Infinity.

“I love you, Liam*.” It falls out. Maybe that was crossing the line?

“Me too, Erin. Always and infinity.”

I turn off the light, close the door, and shake my head.

To think—his parents asked me to take care of him tonight.

---

*I have changed the name of the 3-year-old featured in this story to protect his brilliant, and adorable, identity. Soon after this conversation, his parents had him formally tested and discovered that he was not only gifted, but also that his IQ clocked in at 145—neck and neck with Einstein’s. The five years I spent as his babysitter gave me a fascinating, and sometimes heartbreaking, glimpse into the mind of true genius. He taught himself the periodic table by four, but he struggled to connect with other children. He could tell you every country’s capital, and correct your pronunciation of Kazakhstan, but would easily meltdown when faced with complex emotions. His family moved just after I married and I haven’t heard from them in quite some time, but I think of sweet Liam* often and sometimes I google is name to see if he’s discovered the meaning of life yet.