“And he’s splashing in a puddle!” I said, pointing out the picture of a beige puppy frolicking in the rain.
Then I stopped. Why had I assumed the puppy was male? Why was the “he” my default? For that matter, why did I assume the adult dog singing the song to the puppy was their mother?
“One two three four five six seven eight nine ten!” my three year old counted, touching the pictures in the book as he went.
I blinked. Since when can he count? Did this just happen?
The door to my six-year-old’s room burst open and he bounced into the living room. “What do you want to eat for breakfast?” I asked, sitting on the couch.
“I want to make eggs!” he declared.
“How was school today?” I asked my older son as we sat at the dinner table. He just looked at me. Trying a different tactic, I reframed the question, “What was the funniest thing that happened at school?” He just shrugged. Well, then.
While I’m always interested in what’s going on with my kids, this year is particularly intriguing to me. First grade is the first year that I have a lot of clear memories of my own childhood.
“Just do the next right thing,” Anna sobs as she pulls herself up rock by rock towards the entrance of the cave she’s stuck in. Watching Frozen II on the big screen, I was too enthralled by her crisis to think about how her song related to me. But later, when I was re-listening to the song with my kids, the power of that message hit me. I choked up a bit as I watched the bouncing ball bop atop the words on the sing-along YouTube video.
I too have sat on the floor and cried “I don’t know what to do.” I too have stared miserably in the distance, incapacitated by the seeming lack of a path forward.
“He said his favorite time of day is when he’s going to bed and gets to talk to mommy for a while,” said the text from my husband, referencing my three year old son.
Kid, why don’t you just stab me in the heart again?
“Noooooo,” my older son yelped as we got near the front of the ride, backing away.
My first reaction was annoyance. I thought, “We’ve talked about this for weeks, if not months, and you’re going to back out now?” We were about to get on Space Mountain at Disneyland, my favorite roller coaster in the world. Riding on the one at Magic Kingdom when I was in third grade captured my imagination and sparked an unexpected love of thrill rides. My son – who loves roller coasters – had been desperately looking forward to it. Or at least he had until right then.
As I approached the playground sandbox, I spotted my six- year-old marching away from it with purpose. My husband followed close behind. “We’ll find it!” he proclaimed.
“Find what?” I asked.
“The ball! We don’t know where it went,” my husband responded. Oops.
“I, uh, gave it away,” I admitted.
“He’s so smart!” said the man sitting next me on the plane, referring to my older son. “I can tell by the questions he’s asking.”
“Uh, thanks,” I replied. To me, intelligence is a bit like physical beauty – nice to have, but not something I as a parent can take credit for, per say.
This may look like a plate of waffles to you, but it looks like growing up to me.
“Mickey waffles!” my five year old (nicknamed Sprout) declared, holding the box up and spinning around. The waffles responded by flying out of the box and smashing into the floor. There wasn’t a single clean waffle left.