Imagine that you had a special phone in your pocket that allowed you to press a button and order the beverage of your choice at any time. And, for your added enjoyment, you could also specify the container in which the beverage is housed. For example you could order an ice cold glass of milk in a pint glass, or a hot cup of coffee in your favorite mug--the one with the Chinese dragons on it (please), or perhaps you'd like to enjoy a Sunday morning Bloody Mary with a carrot, a pickle, and two olives in the double old fashioned crystal glass that uncle Ted used to sip scotch out of when he watched the nightly news.
Like magic, the drink would appear, but to your horror and disappointment, it is not presented in the famed crystal of Uncle Ted! "Take it back!" you cry. "I wanted Uncle Ted's glass!"
Your server smiles apologetically. She says, "But, it has the carrot, the pickle and two olives, just as you like it!"
You flop on the floor and wonder how we can all bear to live in a world in which our clearly specified requests are so blatantly ignored! You try to explain your position to your inept server: "But I asked for Uncle Ted's glass. I told you what I wanted. I said please! That's just a plain old ugly cup. I don't want it in that!"
It sounds ridiculous, but somehow this is happening in my house. Naturally, I am the server. I probably get requests like these 20 times a day: I want apple juice in a cup-the Star Wars cup….please. Can I have some chocolate milk….please…and I want it a purple cup with a purple straw. I want milk in a bottle, in the playroom. I want the bottle with the lion on it.
Before you start to think that I'm a total pushover, I will say that if I'm in an exceptionally good mood, I may try to honor the highly detailed beverage orders, but mostly I say, "Tough bananas, guys. The Star Wars cup is in the dishwasher, you're too old for bottles, straws are chosen randomly, and I don't even know if we have apple juice." When I show up with orange juice in a red cup with no straw I prepare myself for the crushing disappointment of my customers.
In graduate school I had an advisor with twin daughters. Both my advisor, Phil, and his wife were workaholic academics, with professional records to show for it. It was an incredible challenge for them to raise the twins, who were born at 25 weeks, and maintain the level of production to which they were accustomed. They employed enough babysitters, nannies, and caretakers to populate a small country. Every time I worked with my advisor he would get a call from the girls' mother reminding him that it was his pick-up day, informing him of the babysitter on duty, and telling him that he should already be in the car on the way to the girl's preschool if he planned to be there on time.
Once-and only once-I accompanied him to the girls' school for pick up because he promised we could discuss the edits for my research paper in the car. I was desperate for his time and accepted the offer. If I had known anything about toddlers, I would have known it was a fool's mission. On the way to the school he talked about the problem of finding reliable childcare to cover his and his wife's work schedule (that would be 24-7), while I held a pile of papers in my lap, pen poised, ready for constructive criticism. It did not come.
We arrived at the school and spent a solid 15 minutes gathering children, coats, artwork, and car seats. The car seats had to be reinstalled in the car every time he picked them up, because they did not use his car for drop off. The girls were wary of my presence in the car and were probably wondering if I was a new babysitter. Phil introduced me as his student, in case they might care.
After the kids were strapped in, the artwork was tucked away, and the bags and jackets were stowed, Phil started to talk to me about the contents of my paper. Picking up on the fact that they were not receiving his attention, the twins immediately started whining and crying and begging for something to drink.
Twin A: I'm firsty.
Twin B: I'm firsty too!
Twin A: I want juuuuiiiicccee.
Twin B: I want juice too!
TwinA: I want apple juice!
Twin B: I want orange juice!
It was clear that there was no chance Phil and I could talk about my paper. As I pondered the possibility that "firsty" is some sort of early unconscious Freudian slip for thinking you come first, Phil addressed the girls, "Okay, I don't have juice in the car. But, I'll call Deirdre and ask her to get the juices ready. Okay?"
Twin A: I want juice now!
Twin B: I'm firsty now! [Twin B starts to kick her feet against the seat and cry.]
Phil whips out a cell phone and calls, Deirdre. "Hi Deirdre. It's Phil. Yes, we're on our way home now. The girls are really thirsty and would like some juice. Could you get them ready so that they can have them right when we get home? We'll be home in about 2 minutes. Just bring it to the car."
Since I did not have kids, I could not believe what was happening. I was imagining myself as the parent of the twins saying, "Juice isn't here in the car. We'll have to wait until we get home and then we can have juice. Oops, and my phone is broken, so I can't call Deirdre."
In the two minutes that it took to pull into the garage, the girls tacked on a few specifications to their order, each one wanting their juice in a specific Disney cup. I could only imagine what horror awaited us when the much anticipated beverages were not presented in the proper vessels.
As expected, when we arrived in the garage, Deirdre materialized with the drink order in the wrong cups and tried to help Phil free the distraught girls from their seats. The shrill protests started with cries of agony over the cups. And the juice was all wrong! It was apple when it should have been orange, and orange when it should have been apple. I thought about having my own uterus removed during Christmas break. Stunned, I sat in the front seat and waited for the screaming banshees to be carried into the house, where Deirdre was frantically refilling juice into the right cups.
Phil returned to the car and said, "Sorry about that, Caroline. You can see why it's hard for me to work from home." Why oh why did I agree to that ride? I thought about how much Phil knows about psychology and animal behavior and attachment and personality development. How could he give in so easily with the cups? In an attempt to restore my faith in psychologists everywhere, I decided to ask.
"So, I have a question. Um… Why didn't you just tell the girls that if they want juice, it comes in the cup it's already in? Why switch the cups?"
"Oh, well, at the age of 3-and that's their chronological age, not their corrected age-they are operating at a base level of the limbic system. They do not have the kind of frontal lobe executive functioning that is required for reasoning, particularly when they are tired. There's no point in reasoning with them about the cups. The only thing that will stop the noise is producing the desired response."
"Huh," I said, while thinking privately to myself about the zillion reasons why I still would not have switched the cups. "I'm going to have a lot of issues with that limbic system if I ever have kids." I think I might favor Classical Conditioning and the pigeon experiments: no matter how many times you scream your head off, you don't get the pellet, or the juice in the pink Disneyland cup.
And this is why the beverage issue is bothering me. Somehow I have fallen into the murky waters of specialized beverage service. The pigeons have pecked and-on occasion-I have rewarded them with pellets made to order. Now we must go through the painful process of extinction, in which the pigeons must learn that although pecking has worked in the past, it is now a waste of energy. No pellets will be forthcoming. No amount of whining will produce apple juice in a Star Wars cup with a purple straw, cold, but no ice if you please.
Still, I know how they like their drinks, and I will probably tend to make choices that make them happy, as I do with anything else. If a purple straw makes your day, then by golly, I'll reach for purple. There is just something about demanding that your beverage be served up in a special way that makes me want to dump it on your head.
One day, after being given a specialized drink order, I said to Garrett, "Garrett, do you know what a waitress is?"
"No."
"I'll tell you. A waitress, or waiter, is someone who works in a restaurant and you pay them money to bring you what the restaurant has to offer. They will bring it just the way you like it."
"Oh, that's nice," he said.
"It sure is. But, I am not a waitress. I am a mother and I do not get paid, but in theory I am rewarded. I help you when you cannot do things for yourself. And I teach you how to do things for yourself. And-see if you can listen extra careful now-I help you to understand that sometimes things don't happen the way we like and we just learn to live with that."
"What?"
"That was a lot, wasn't it. Here's another way to say it: Mommies don't like to take orders, but they do like for you to be happy. Sometimes you can't have your juice in a Star Wars cup and that's disappointing, but it will all be okay. Okay?" We are really learning something here, I thought!
Garrett considered what I had said. "Okay. How 'bout I have my juice in a Spiderman cup then?"
I had to at least give him credit for being flexible, but I realized that all he heard was the bit about not getting your juice in a Star Wars cup. It's a start.
That night I decided to enjoy a glass of wine. I chose a varietal that my tired palate seemed to be craving. Something red, maybe from Chili, something fruity and light on the tannins. I considered my mood and selected a wine glass. Did I want something elegant with a long stem and a big bowl (Better to fill you with, my dear)? Was I in a swirling mood? No. Something casual and low maintenance, easily put in the dishwasher? Yes! I chose the Italian tumbler style like the one my grandfather used to drink out of after a long day of drying fruit in the yard or working on blueprints. He used to pour red table wine over peaches and let them soak up the flavors of the wine. After the wine was patiently drained from the glass, he savored the peaches. I didn't have peaches, but I've learned to be flexible. The memory of my grandfather was just as pleasing.
While preparing one simple glass of wine, I made at least four or five choices, each of them with the purpose of maximizing my pleasure and meeting my need. It is such a privilege to be your own waitress-to fill your own order. And in choosing and preparing my beverage, I knew that there is little difference between myself and a limbic system driven two year old, or a Star Wars loving 5 year old.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Pumpkin Follow Up
We took the kids to two pumpkin patches today to pick out some more pumpkins. This time they each came home with their own loot. It was a very warm day, but there was just enough Fall in the air to make for a festive excursion. In the first picture Garrett is standing in front of a selection of mini pumpkins. I wonder if Mary can get all 
of those in her bed? In the second picture, the kids are busy choosing their pumpkins. In the last picture, I thought maybe it would be nice if I was in a picture. Chris waited for just the right moment to snap the shot. Guess what moment that was?
of those in her bed? In the second picture, the kids are busy choosing their pumpkins. In the last picture, I thought maybe it would be nice if I was in a picture. Chris waited for just the right moment to snap the shot. Guess what moment that was?
Friday, October 10, 2008
The Great Pumpkin
Yesterday Garrett went to Curtis Apple Orchard for a class field trip. The kids take a tour of the orchard, learn how bees pollinate plants, pick out a pumpkin, and drink apple juice out of a little container shaped like an apple. The orchard has a place for the kids to feed goats, pan for gold, and jump 5 feet off a ledge onto a pile of hay.
On the bright side, the kids have a great time, the grown ups get to eat delicious homemade apple fritters and stock up on apple butter, and you get that warm fuzzy feeling that comes with supporting local farmers and getting out into nature.
On the not so bright side, the goats smell, its easy to lose your kid, and I just know that one day I will be the mother of a quadriplegic because Garrett’s neck was snapped by an over zealous hay jumper. Then how will he eat his apples? He could probably blink twice when he finds a pumpkin that he likes. But I digress.
So, Garrett got off the bus with his carefully chosen pumpkin and proudly announced that it belonged to him, as evidenced by the fact that his name was on the bottom of it. Mary was sitting in the stroller—to which she had been sent as punishment for not following the rules in the playground. She has a penchant for choosing to climb on the highest, most dangerous monkey bars just when Garrett’s class is being dismissed, making it impossible for me to help her and greet Garrett.
Mary was aroused out of her catatonic grumpy slump when she saw that pumpkin! You could see a plan forming as her eyes darted back and forth between Garrett, the pumpkin, and her lap. Her little lips were pursed in thought. I said, “Garrett, can Mary hold your pumpkin for the walk home?’
“Okay,” he said, somewhat cautiously “But, Mary that’s my pumpkin ‘cause I got it on that fieldtrip, and it has my name on it on the bottom. Do you want to see?”
She just glared and squeezed her prize.
“Garrett,” I assured him, “Mary knows that the pumpkin is yours. Don’t you Mary?”
More glaring.
“Mommy, I don’t think she knows it has my name on it.”
“I’ll be sure and point it out, Garrett.”
Garrett went to Isabela’s house to play after school and Mary held on tight to the pumpkin all the way home. I released her from her stroller and she bounced out with renewed energy, still clinging to the fruit with zeal. “I have Garrett’s pumpkin. It’s my pumpkin!”
“Mary, that is Garrett’s pumpkin. You understand? Garrett brought it home from school. You can hold it until he wants it back.”
For the rest of the afternoon Mary toted the pumpkin around wherever she went. The pumpkin had a snack with her. The pumpkin played computer games with her. Then Garrett came home and the pumpkin conveniently disappeared. I later discovered it, hidden in her bed. She went to sleep that night with her favorite cat, her favorite blanket, and a pumpkin the size of her head next to her own head. Garrett hasn’t asked about it yet. He isn’t possessive enough to care (although at this very minute, he is crying because Mary is licking his ice cream bowl).
I wrote this little poem to capture Mary’s attitude about her rights to the Great Pumpkin.
The Night of the Great Pumpkin
Now I lay me down to sleep
Garrett’s pumpkin I will keep
I dare a soul to try to take
This borrowed loot before I wake
From the patch my brother chose it
Brought it home and thinks he owns it
But I knew at my first sight
That squash would lie with me tonight!
On the bottom there are some letters
I’m only three, I don’t know better
Garrett says they spell his name
I can’t read yet, what a shame.
Good night mommy, good night brother
This pumpkin’s mine, go find another
If I don’t see it here at morning
Just know you’ve all been given warning.
On the bright side, the kids have a great time, the grown ups get to eat delicious homemade apple fritters and stock up on apple butter, and you get that warm fuzzy feeling that comes with supporting local farmers and getting out into nature.
On the not so bright side, the goats smell, its easy to lose your kid, and I just know that one day I will be the mother of a quadriplegic because Garrett’s neck was snapped by an over zealous hay jumper. Then how will he eat his apples? He could probably blink twice when he finds a pumpkin that he likes. But I digress.
So, Garrett got off the bus with his carefully chosen pumpkin and proudly announced that it belonged to him, as evidenced by the fact that his name was on the bottom of it. Mary was sitting in the stroller—to which she had been sent as punishment for not following the rules in the playground. She has a penchant for choosing to climb on the highest, most dangerous monkey bars just when Garrett’s class is being dismissed, making it impossible for me to help her and greet Garrett.
Mary was aroused out of her catatonic grumpy slump when she saw that pumpkin! You could see a plan forming as her eyes darted back and forth between Garrett, the pumpkin, and her lap. Her little lips were pursed in thought. I said, “Garrett, can Mary hold your pumpkin for the walk home?’
“Okay,” he said, somewhat cautiously “But, Mary that’s my pumpkin ‘cause I got it on that fieldtrip, and it has my name on it on the bottom. Do you want to see?”
She just glared and squeezed her prize.
“Garrett,” I assured him, “Mary knows that the pumpkin is yours. Don’t you Mary?”
More glaring.
“Mommy, I don’t think she knows it has my name on it.”
“I’ll be sure and point it out, Garrett.”
Garrett went to Isabela’s house to play after school and Mary held on tight to the pumpkin all the way home. I released her from her stroller and she bounced out with renewed energy, still clinging to the fruit with zeal. “I have Garrett’s pumpkin. It’s my pumpkin!”
“Mary, that is Garrett’s pumpkin. You understand? Garrett brought it home from school. You can hold it until he wants it back.”
For the rest of the afternoon Mary toted the pumpkin around wherever she went. The pumpkin had a snack with her. The pumpkin played computer games with her. Then Garrett came home and the pumpkin conveniently disappeared. I later discovered it, hidden in her bed. She went to sleep that night with her favorite cat, her favorite blanket, and a pumpkin the size of her head next to her own head. Garrett hasn’t asked about it yet. He isn’t possessive enough to care (although at this very minute, he is crying because Mary is licking his ice cream bowl).
I wrote this little poem to capture Mary’s attitude about her rights to the Great Pumpkin.
The Night of the Great Pumpkin
Now I lay me down to sleep
Garrett’s pumpkin I will keep
I dare a soul to try to take
This borrowed loot before I wake
From the patch my brother chose it
Brought it home and thinks he owns it
But I knew at my first sight
That squash would lie with me tonight!
On the bottom there are some letters
I’m only three, I don’t know better
Garrett says they spell his name
I can’t read yet, what a shame.
Good night mommy, good night brother
This pumpkin’s mine, go find another
If I don’t see it here at morning
Just know you’ve all been given warning.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Making a Point
About six weeks ago, Garrett and I were in Lowe's looking for a few household items. I was unable to find something and decided to ask the nice man in the paint department if he could help me. As I described what I was looking for, I noticed that Garrett was looking at the clerk, deep in thought. Suddenly, like one of those hunting dogs that sticks his nose, knee, and tail straight out to tell the hunter's what he's found, Garrett pointed to the clerk and said, "Mommy! That man has no hair!"
It was true, the man was bald. My eyes widened in embarrassment and I said, "That's right Garrett, and probably you won't either one day." The clerk tried to ease the awkward situation and said, "Yeah buddy, I get some hair, but I think it's best just to shave it off." Then he turned to me and said, "You'll find that item on the end of isle 15. I'll take you there." Garrett continued to glare and worry about the future of his own head.
When we got outside, I said, "Garrett, I know we haven't really talked about this before, but it is really not nice to point to somebody and say something about their body."
"But, mommy, he had no hair. I wanted you to see it."
"Yes, I know, but the thing is that you don't know how he feels about not having hair. So if you point to him and say 'he has no hair' then that might make him feel bad." It was a harder concept to explain than I thought it would be. I had to teach Garrett how to take the perspective of the other person. "You wouldn't want someone to point to you and say, 'look at that', right?"
"Oh. Okay," he said.
"Now, from now on, if you see somebody that has something special or unusual, you can tell me when we're alone. Okay?"
"Okay. I'm sorry." He started to cry.
I said, "Oh hey, honey, don't cry. I know you didn't know that you were doing something that wasn't nice. Let's just try to not do it again. Okay? Now we're going to wait to talk to each other when we're alone." I was silently grateful that he didn't point out something worse, like a maimed child or something.
A few weeks later, we were at the ice cream social in the cafeteria at Garrett's school. Everyone got in line for their ice cream, loaded it up with toppings, and then found a seat at one of the long tables. Nothing brings people together like ice cream, so the tables were crowded. Garrett and I found a seat, and soon Isabela joined us. Garrett was oblivious to anything going on around us because his sole mission was to get to the bottom of that ice cream, and then suck all the remaining contents out of the bowl.
When Garrett finished, he looked around with a sense of satisfaction and gave his tummy the kind of pat that would make you think of Winnie the Pooh with an empty honey pot. He stood up and looked around for the first time, probably wondering what he should do now. Then he spotted the man sitting directly across from us, who had a six inch birth mark, or burn scar on the right side of his face. I'm sure you know what's coming. Out went the arm, with the sharply pointed finger. The eyes widened, the mouth fell open, and he said, "MOMMY, LOOK!"
Like an eagle, I swooped in and thrust Garrett's arm to his side, put my lips directly to his ear and said, in the strongest of whispers, "Don't ever do that again. Do not point at people like that!" It was painfully obvious that the man understood what was going on, but took on that distant stare and pretended to be oblivious.
Garrett is a sensitive creature and immediately started to cry. Little tears started making their way through dried valleys of chocolate sauce and ice cream. Isabela said, "What's wrong with Garrett?"
I pulled both of them to the side of the room, away from the man. I tried to soothe Garrett, who was probably thinking that he was the worst person on the planet. I said, "Garrett, honey, don't cry. I think you forgot not to point. Remember what we said about pointing? Remember that we said we shouldn't talk about people like that?"
Isabela said, "That man had something on his face."
I said, "Yes, but he doesn't need us to tell him that. What if you and Garrett had a big purple spot on your nose and all your friends at school pointed at it and said, 'you have a big spot on your nose!'?"
Garrett started to cry harder, imagining the curse of the purple spot. Isabela said, "My mommy says that if you see something that you don't understand or maybe if somebody is different than you, you shouldn't point. That's not a nice thing to do." She shrugged her shoulders and put her hands up in emphasis. "What should we do instead of pointing? Well, we can wait to ask our mommies and daddies about what we saw. Many times a person has a feature that they can't help and it isn't nice to point to it, but we can ask....."
"That's right, Isabela. Now Garrett, let's calm down because we're supposed to be here, eating ice cream and having fun, right?"
Garrett took deep breaths and sniffed with a G force of 5. "I'm sorry."
"I know. And it's okay and now we're going to move on."
Isabela found another opportunity to share her mother's wisdom. "My mommy says 'okay, we got upset and we learned a lesson and now we're going to move on! We just take a moment for our feelings and then we move on.'"
"That's right, Isabela. We should all move on." At least somebody is listening to their mother.
So a few more weeks passed, with no pointing at innocents and announcing imperfections, and we were all happy. Then, we passed a pirate on the way home from school. I mean, what would you do if you saw a pirate?
What we actually saw was a very tan, rugged college student with scruffy hair and an eye patch. This was not lost on Garrett: "Mommy, LOOK! A pirate!"
"Garrett! What did I say about pointing?" I felt so defeated.
The man saw my angst and said, "Ahoy there, matey!" I smiled at him gratefully. Garrett did not say 'Ahoy' back because he had stopped in his tracks to hang his head in shame. He whimpered, "But, mommy, he is a pirate."
"Yes, I guess he is." I had to agree.
As if it isn't enough for one small boy to see 3 strange things in the span of a few weeks (although I don't know why baldness should surprise him), Garrett got yet another opportunity to nail down this pointing thing. And I hope after I tell you about it, you will appreciate how far he has come with this particular problem.
Once again, we were walking home from school. There are so many children in our neighborhood that walk to school. Every day there is a parent parade at 3:00. You usually see the same people picking up their kids, but every once in a while you see someone new. Like, on this day. On this day, a lovely little girl in our neighborhood was accompanied by her grandfather. It was a warm, almost spring-like day, and none of us were wearing jackets. And one of us went even farther than that. Grandpa opted not to wear socks with his loafers, and,as a bonus, he opted to wear his button-down shirt unbuttoned. And I don't mean in the casual way that one unbuttons one's shirt to reveal a t-shirt. Grandpa's shirt was unbuttoned, shirt tails flapping, sockless feet squeaking in his shoes. He reminded me of a flag bearer with a kazoo. Of course, all of our eyes were drawn immediately to grandpa's bare chest. Think of your grandpa. Think of his bare chest. It's not really something you want to gaze at.
Now, imagine Garrett and his wide eyes, glancing back over his shoulder every 2 seconds to be sure that he really sees a half-naked grandpa. Once he was sure, he sprinted 10 feet to be at my side, and said at the top of his precious lungs, "Mommy! That man does not have his shirt on right and I did not point!"
"Good for you, Garrett. Let's work on your bugle voice."
Seriously, a bugle would be less conspicuous.
A week later he saw a jogger and said again, this time more quietly, "Mommy that man is not wearing a shirt and I did not point." We are making so much progress.
It was true, the man was bald. My eyes widened in embarrassment and I said, "That's right Garrett, and probably you won't either one day." The clerk tried to ease the awkward situation and said, "Yeah buddy, I get some hair, but I think it's best just to shave it off." Then he turned to me and said, "You'll find that item on the end of isle 15. I'll take you there." Garrett continued to glare and worry about the future of his own head.
When we got outside, I said, "Garrett, I know we haven't really talked about this before, but it is really not nice to point to somebody and say something about their body."
"But, mommy, he had no hair. I wanted you to see it."
"Yes, I know, but the thing is that you don't know how he feels about not having hair. So if you point to him and say 'he has no hair' then that might make him feel bad." It was a harder concept to explain than I thought it would be. I had to teach Garrett how to take the perspective of the other person. "You wouldn't want someone to point to you and say, 'look at that', right?"
"Oh. Okay," he said.
"Now, from now on, if you see somebody that has something special or unusual, you can tell me when we're alone. Okay?"
"Okay. I'm sorry." He started to cry.
I said, "Oh hey, honey, don't cry. I know you didn't know that you were doing something that wasn't nice. Let's just try to not do it again. Okay? Now we're going to wait to talk to each other when we're alone." I was silently grateful that he didn't point out something worse, like a maimed child or something.
A few weeks later, we were at the ice cream social in the cafeteria at Garrett's school. Everyone got in line for their ice cream, loaded it up with toppings, and then found a seat at one of the long tables. Nothing brings people together like ice cream, so the tables were crowded. Garrett and I found a seat, and soon Isabela joined us. Garrett was oblivious to anything going on around us because his sole mission was to get to the bottom of that ice cream, and then suck all the remaining contents out of the bowl.
When Garrett finished, he looked around with a sense of satisfaction and gave his tummy the kind of pat that would make you think of Winnie the Pooh with an empty honey pot. He stood up and looked around for the first time, probably wondering what he should do now. Then he spotted the man sitting directly across from us, who had a six inch birth mark, or burn scar on the right side of his face. I'm sure you know what's coming. Out went the arm, with the sharply pointed finger. The eyes widened, the mouth fell open, and he said, "MOMMY, LOOK!"
Like an eagle, I swooped in and thrust Garrett's arm to his side, put my lips directly to his ear and said, in the strongest of whispers, "Don't ever do that again. Do not point at people like that!" It was painfully obvious that the man understood what was going on, but took on that distant stare and pretended to be oblivious.
Garrett is a sensitive creature and immediately started to cry. Little tears started making their way through dried valleys of chocolate sauce and ice cream. Isabela said, "What's wrong with Garrett?"
I pulled both of them to the side of the room, away from the man. I tried to soothe Garrett, who was probably thinking that he was the worst person on the planet. I said, "Garrett, honey, don't cry. I think you forgot not to point. Remember what we said about pointing? Remember that we said we shouldn't talk about people like that?"
Isabela said, "That man had something on his face."
I said, "Yes, but he doesn't need us to tell him that. What if you and Garrett had a big purple spot on your nose and all your friends at school pointed at it and said, 'you have a big spot on your nose!'?"
Garrett started to cry harder, imagining the curse of the purple spot. Isabela said, "My mommy says that if you see something that you don't understand or maybe if somebody is different than you, you shouldn't point. That's not a nice thing to do." She shrugged her shoulders and put her hands up in emphasis. "What should we do instead of pointing? Well, we can wait to ask our mommies and daddies about what we saw. Many times a person has a feature that they can't help and it isn't nice to point to it, but we can ask....."
"That's right, Isabela. Now Garrett, let's calm down because we're supposed to be here, eating ice cream and having fun, right?"
Garrett took deep breaths and sniffed with a G force of 5. "I'm sorry."
"I know. And it's okay and now we're going to move on."
Isabela found another opportunity to share her mother's wisdom. "My mommy says 'okay, we got upset and we learned a lesson and now we're going to move on! We just take a moment for our feelings and then we move on.'"
"That's right, Isabela. We should all move on." At least somebody is listening to their mother.
So a few more weeks passed, with no pointing at innocents and announcing imperfections, and we were all happy. Then, we passed a pirate on the way home from school. I mean, what would you do if you saw a pirate?
What we actually saw was a very tan, rugged college student with scruffy hair and an eye patch. This was not lost on Garrett: "Mommy, LOOK! A pirate!"
"Garrett! What did I say about pointing?" I felt so defeated.
The man saw my angst and said, "Ahoy there, matey!" I smiled at him gratefully. Garrett did not say 'Ahoy' back because he had stopped in his tracks to hang his head in shame. He whimpered, "But, mommy, he is a pirate."
"Yes, I guess he is." I had to agree.
As if it isn't enough for one small boy to see 3 strange things in the span of a few weeks (although I don't know why baldness should surprise him), Garrett got yet another opportunity to nail down this pointing thing. And I hope after I tell you about it, you will appreciate how far he has come with this particular problem.
Once again, we were walking home from school. There are so many children in our neighborhood that walk to school. Every day there is a parent parade at 3:00. You usually see the same people picking up their kids, but every once in a while you see someone new. Like, on this day. On this day, a lovely little girl in our neighborhood was accompanied by her grandfather. It was a warm, almost spring-like day, and none of us were wearing jackets. And one of us went even farther than that. Grandpa opted not to wear socks with his loafers, and,as a bonus, he opted to wear his button-down shirt unbuttoned. And I don't mean in the casual way that one unbuttons one's shirt to reveal a t-shirt. Grandpa's shirt was unbuttoned, shirt tails flapping, sockless feet squeaking in his shoes. He reminded me of a flag bearer with a kazoo. Of course, all of our eyes were drawn immediately to grandpa's bare chest. Think of your grandpa. Think of his bare chest. It's not really something you want to gaze at.
Now, imagine Garrett and his wide eyes, glancing back over his shoulder every 2 seconds to be sure that he really sees a half-naked grandpa. Once he was sure, he sprinted 10 feet to be at my side, and said at the top of his precious lungs, "Mommy! That man does not have his shirt on right and I did not point!"
"Good for you, Garrett. Let's work on your bugle voice."
Seriously, a bugle would be less conspicuous.
A week later he saw a jogger and said again, this time more quietly, "Mommy that man is not wearing a shirt and I did not point." We are making so much progress.
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