Apparently, David did not have his fix of elevators on our trip because since we have returned it has been all things elevator. The shower doors are an elevator, the miniscule guest bathroom, an elevator (with a tested capacity of three but don't tell the fire marshall), the pocket door leading to the basement—you guessed it—an elevator.
So I was taking David to speech therapy and, as usual, we were in a hurry. David rides the bus home from school most days, but on Fridays we pick him up so that he can make it to speech on time, or at least almost on time. This year they adjusted the elementary school hours 10 minutes to save money on transportation and I do not want to admit that those ten fewer minutes are causing us problems.
We arrive for our appointment only about two minutes late. The therapist is waiting for us in the lobby, but David has stopped in the air lock between the two sets of entry doors. Usually, he is anxious to press the button to activate the automatic doors, but not this time. Instead he reaches out with his index finger to press an imaginary spot on the wall.
Beep…Beep. It takes me to the second floor to realize that we are now in an elevator.
Beep…Beep. There is another therapist behind me who had walked a client out to the car and is waiting to get back into the building, so I explain what is happening to her.
Beep…Beep. "Evidently, this is a pretty tall building," I offer, apologetically.
Beep…Beep. And then the therapist behind me calls out "DING! We're here."
David and I both smiled at our shared experience. He was pleased that she had played along in his imaginary game. I was amused that sometimes when patience runs out, it tolls like a bell. DING!