The Neverending Questions

The other day when I was picking my son up from preschool, one of his teachers stopped me. “I have to tell you something your son did today” she said. My heart dropped. I felt like I’d been sent to the principal’s office.

Then she told me that my son was playing with blocks and when the tower started to fall, he exclaimed, “IT’S THE LEANING TOWER OF PISA!”

“How does he know that?!” she asked.

I knew that by the time I had a three year old he'd be able to talk and I imagined some (mostly one-sided) conversations we'd be able to have, the songs we'd be able to sing, but I never realized just how much a kid that young could understand. 

On a typical ride in the car we jump across subjects. Sometimes I find myself explaining why people don't eat bones. "Because we don't" will not slide. So instead I explain how our bodies aren't equipped to digest them and dive into specifics about the anatomical differences between our teeth and dog's teeth (assuming this is why he's asking). 

Other days my son pokes different parts of his face and asks, "why is this hard?" And I describe the human skeleton to him. When I use a word he doesn't know he asks me what it means, and he stops to ask thoughtful questions (Then why isn't my stomach hard? Where did my stomach bones go?) When he's satisfied, he immediately switches to a new topic. He wants to know if car accidents hurt, if running over a bird will stop it from flying, how we are affected by other drivers on the road (if that car hits that car will WE get hurt?). It's beyond any scenario I ever imagined.

I try not to say I don't know too often because I hate that answer. Let's be honest, no one—regardless of age—likes that response. So instead I pose questions back to him when I can't answer something. When he asks me how someone feels I encourage him to think how he would feel in the same situation.

"Would Luke be sad if I took his blocks?" 

"Well, would you be sad if Luke took YOUR blocks" 

"Hmmm yeah I would. Cause that's not very nice."

I have to admit though, when he asks me the name of the stranger walking down the street, where they live, and if they have kids, I do have to resort to I don't know (although even then I try to give him a little bit more... I don't know because I've never met that person). And when he asks if he can roll down the window and ask, I find myself weighing the pros and cons of the stranger danger talk.

Bigger

Today as I sat at the table with my two-and-a-half-year-old, I couldn’t help but marvel at just how BIG he was. Watching him heave spoonfuls of mac ‘n’ cheese into his mouth, expertly maneuvering the spoon without even looking at it, I longed a little for the days when I had to feed him: highchair, bib, tiny plastic spoons—the whole nine yards. Today, he did not need my help to eat his lunch, and honestly, it’d been a long time since he had.

For some reason, in that moment, his eyes fixed on Curious George as he ate, he seemed so much bigger than the day before. Heck, he seemed bigger than he had at breakfast. Maybe I had finally sat down long enough to notice, or maybe it had something to do with the fact that we had taken our first preschool tour that morning.

All he ever talks about is being bigger. He wakes up from a nap, “I’m bigger, Mom!” From the backseat of my car he says matter-of-factly, “when I’m 16, I can reach the pedals.” I tell him, it’s good to be little, to stay little as long as he can, but he’s in a rush to grow up.

It seems like forever from now that he’ll truly be big enough to not need me anymore, to be able to reach those pedals, to secure true independence, but I suppose when he was an infant, lounging in my arms most of the day, I thought having a toddler was a long ways off, too. Being bigger is all he wants to think about, and I can hardly bear the thought of it.

We’ve left behind everything “baby,” about him. Every time I call him baby, he stands tall and corrects me, “Mom, I’m not a baby. I’m a big boy!” And he’s right. I simultaneously fight and embrace him growing him. We’ve left behind the binkies, the bottles, the crib, and the high chair. We’re almost done with the diapers. And I’ve marveled in every milestone. Clapped for him, gave rambunctious high fives, celebrated his every success right there with him, a wide grin pulling across his face as he cheers and says, “I’m big!”

After I tuck him into bed, savoring the song he still asks for and the stories I still read to him, I retreat with a simple, “goodnight, I love you.” He returns the sentiment, and I let go a sigh of relief that the day is over, before pressing my fingers to my eyes to staunch the tears. Because when he wakes up, I know one thing is true: he’ll be bigger.

-- N.

Little Lies

I read once that when young children lie it's a sign of intelligence. Now, I'm not 100 percent sure if this is true, or just a little lie parents concocted themselves to feel better about their two-year-old's ability to fib like a politician, but I breathed a little sign of relief when I read it. You see, my son has been capable of lying just as long as he's been capable of talking.

They started out small. Mere "mistakes" I thought at first. Answering yes to questions when the truth was no--that sort of thing. Then we reached a particularly alarming phase of lying where anytime I asked him about a scratch or a bruise he told me his dog bit him. It lasted so long I was afraid to take him out in public for fear people would call Animal Control to our house to capture the beast (he's not). My son could be laying down on the couch next to me, playing a little game, his dog not even in the room and he would look up at me with big blue eyes and say "Mom, Nine bite me!" Clearly, Nine did not.

It got a little humorous (but only a little) when he started telling me his grandparents bit him. He'd come home from a day at their house all smile and giggles. I'd question a bruise and he'd look at me, completely serious, and deadpan "Papa bit me." Obviously, Papa did not. And to make matters worse he'd tell his grandparents the same about his dad and I. I was feeling pretty certain we'd have a CPS visitor at our house before we knew it. Luckily he got through the phase quickly enough but not before he started adding variation to his routine. Let's just say, it wasn't only mysterious biting going on, my son was now also being miraculously hit while no one was even standing within arm span of him.

While the outright lying has subsided, his trickery has not. He'll come bolting into the house from the garage where he's undoubtedly been "fixing" something with his dad and ask me a question, or tell me he needs something. "Mom! I need to hold dad's wrench!" My response, "Did dad say you could hold his wrench?" "I NEED ITTTTTTTT" followed by wails. Ah yes, the ol' ask the other parent when the first one says no. I know it well, kid.

Then there's the sweet talking. Ohhhh, the sweet talking.

My son: Mom, I really, really love you. I REALLY love you.
Me: Awww honey, I really, really love you, too!
My son: Can I have chocolate milk?

I mean, clearly I gave him chocolate milk, but that's not the point here. The point is my son is a genius. And your little fibber probably is too.

Oh, and guess who coached him on the last one. His dad. Yup; don't even get me started on the bro code that seems to exist around here.

Parental Pride: A Cautionary Tale

As a parent, I think it's impossible not to be (overly) proud of our tiny offspring. After all, every new milestone they hit is more than just an achievement for them, it's a victory for mom and dad, as well, and two years old seems to be an especially busy time for little ones. They are potty training, transitioning to big boy and big girl beds, and learning how to ditch the little comforts that have consoled even their biggest tantrums for the previous two years (such as binkies and bottles). All of this while simultaneously learning shapes, colors, letters, and numbers. It's a lot.

Every time my son masters a new word or counts just a little bit higher, my heart swells with pride. I, like most parents, think my son is probably the smartest kid around, boasting to family and friends about his (honestly time-appropriate) life developments as if he has just secured an Olympic gold medal. We can't help it, I swear.

Thankfully, however, in the same moment two year olds make your heart grow three sizes, they can bring you crashing back to reality. They do it well, and they do it often.

This week, in mommy and me soccer, my budding soccer star (who still prefers to use his hands and scream touchdown when he makes a goal; it's okay, he can be the goalie), was a perfect angel for the entire 50-minute skills class, which is really saying something for a toddler who can't make it through dinner without at least two meltdowns, three screaming sessions, and a fit of giggles. To say I was proud that he managed to listen and follow directions for the entire duration of class would be an understatement. It was a clear sign of his obvious genius. We were finally turning a corner! The terrible twos were over! We could have left soccer class right then and never come back and my son would have forever been remembered as the most well-behaved two-year-old to ever play soccer. But I didn't. I missed my opportunity. I took his behavior for granted. And as he and his little teammates put their hands out for traditional end-of-class stickers, I was humbled.

My son's playmate—same age as him—took one look at the star-shaped adornments on his hand and promptly exclaimed "Stars!" for all the mommies to hear. Then, as if that wasn't enough, he began to count proudly "1, 2, 3 stars!" His mom yelled congrats, we all clapped and said "yay," my son looked on in awe. And as he got his celebratory stickers—the ones that marked a job well done for the most perfect performance in a toddler class ever—he took one look at those brightly-colored stars, lifted his hand toward his face, and ate them. Just like that, it had all come crashing down.

It was not my first lesson in parental pride, and it will not be my last. I’ll still cherish every milestone, I’ll still gobble up compliments when they’re doled out (I’ll need those moments later when he’s sprawled out on the floor, screaming because I cut his waffle wrong), and I’ll remember to cherish it while it lasts; because if my son has taught me anything, it’s that these prideful moments are fleeting.

--N.