One-and-a-half-year-old grandson Evan explored our apartment this weekend, his little fingers grasping the world and bringing it to mind.

My brief doorway confab with his father was time enough for Evan to open an end-table drawer and find the household’s largest pair of scissors. (It had taken me more than an hour to find them the last time I tried, and I live here.)

He then turned his attention to the glass top of the coffee table, curious to hear what sound it made when struck with various objects–grandma’s ceramic fish, the wheels of a wind-up toy, his milk bottle, a set of car keys, his own forehead. He soon learned that he could make the most intriguing sounds by crawling across it, walking on it, and jumping on it. Nothing compares to the reverberating echo of flexing glass as you test its impact resistance.

No matter how many times we scolded him and lifted him off the glass, Evan’s curiosity was undeterred. His dad suggested that we cover the table with a blanket of some sort, so I draped an knit afghan over it. After a few more experiments, Evan learned he could elude the wrath of his minders if he stood beside the table, rested his torso on the afghan, and set the glass pane oscillating when he dropped his head upon it. Despite the cushioning of the multi-colored yarn, playing body music on the coffee table became his favorite pastime.

“Someone had better keep that boy’s mind occupied,” his grandmother said, looking me in the eye.

I’m doing my best, Mimi, but his brain has devoured everything I’ve given him. And he’s reaching around me to get more.