The Right Way

Olivia is four and nine months this week. Closing in on five fast. Here are a few of her recent accomplishments: writing her name, casting a fishing pole, consistently putting her shoes on the right feet, dressing herself in the morning, helping with cleanup around the house, putting her face in the water (thanks to swim class), feeding Rosa the fish. 

The past few days she's shown an interest in skateboarding, so this morning I pull my old deck out of the garage and let her scoot around. I have to hold her hand, of course. Years ago I broke my arm riding this same board and I'm sure my anxiety transmits. She doesn't seem especially concerned. She just steps up there and glides along, pushing off now and then and hollering when the board shoots out from under her. To my surprise, she doesn't exhibit her usual frustration when she things don't go her way. She tries again, switching the position of her feet or just sits down on the deck to let gravity do the work. The whole process is relatively peaceful and tantrum-free. 

This is encouraging. These small successes build on each other, bolstering her self-esteem. I make sure tell her she is doing well. I also can't prevent myself from trying to get her to position her feet "correctly." I developed bad skating habits early on, pushing mongo, and never managed to retrain myself. I want badly for her to start off with good technique. She resists my input adamantly, telling me she wants to do it "her own way."

I have to restrain myself. She's four. She just wants to be on the skateboard. That, and a little sense of accomplishment, is all that really matters for now. 

Thinking Cap

I get a strange feeling the moment I realize my kid can think. It's the way I imagine one would feel if a house cat walked up and asked, in plain English, if it could please have a dish of tuna. Strange, and a little awkward because, after all, up until that moment you have been treating it as though it couldn't understand a single thing you said or did.


"Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't realize…"

"Don't worry. Perfectly understandable. Now, about that tuna…"


This shouldn't be a surprise, of course. Human babies are human beings and naturally they learn to think on their own, but that first moment of realization is still unsettling. For such a long time they seem to do nothing at all. They're just flailing little proto-blobs capable of nothing more than crying, sleeping and eating.


And that is pretty much how I thought of Sam up until the moment, a few mornings ago,  when he crawled up and, with a plaintive expression, held out to me his blue bicycle helmet. I just stood there for a moment and he started to whine, his tone getting increasingly desperate as he extended the helmet up to me. I knelt down and put it on his head.


He stopped whining immediately and I realized at that moment, as he happily patted his helmet, that I wasn't dealing with the same Sammy anymore. He doesn't just have needs, he has preferences. He has goals. He has a desire to communicate. That weird feeling set in.


I should point out that Sammy doesn't speak a single word. He makes vocalizations that could be loosely interpreted as mommy or daddy or apple, but not in any context that makes sense. This non-verbal condition has served handily to mask, from me, the possibility that there may be a thinking being in there; forming impressions, making judgements, struggling to get out.


So now Sammy isn't such a baby anymore. He's a little kid who likes to wear his blue helmet. I'm very happy to oblige him.