Can You Make Her Voice Come?

We are back in New York for what we have decided will be our last year, and this morning as I walked you to school in the stroller, zooming through the crosswalks like a race car while you yelled "wheeeeee!" I had to dodge an unhoused person whose rear end was clearly visible below his shirt. There are many great things about this city, but there are also many not great things. Happily you didn't seem to notice at all.

You have gotten more involved in imaginative play, and now you want me to do voices for Baby Faff and for Eloise and for other stuffies. The other day we took Eloise to the Met so that you could show her all your armor (all the armor was yours, and you had to explain that all the lances were used for jousting.) At one point you escaped my hovering presence and put your eager hands on the copper cannon that they, conveniently for everyone involved, chose to install on the floor, with no delineating strings or anything to mark it as off-limits except a sign which you are not able to read. We got yelled at. Oh, well. I'm sure worse has happened to that cannon in its long life. 

When you want me to voice a stuffie or a doll you say "Can you make her voice come?" And then you converse seriously with whatever toy I am articulating. Even though you know it's me, I think. Baby Faff will sometimes try to help me encourage you into tooth brushing or a bathroom visit or other things mothers tend to value more than big kids do. 

You are very into bow ties, and today you wore your cowboy boots to school. On your first day, you wanted to wear a bow tie, and informed me "I'm in a fancy suit." You love to look handsome and dapper. 

Lately you are very curious about who are good guys and who are bad guys, a schema we think derived from your repeated viewings of the original Pinocchio. Not long ago your dad and I were dismayed to hear your characterize yourself as a "bad boy." We wonder if anyone told you that. It sounded like it may have come from some kid at summer Montessori, so we have been making a point of telling you you are good, and a good boy, and that you are gentle and kind and loving and brave. Of course, the kid probably said that when you threw a haymaker at him. You continue to think with your fists when you have strong feelings, and to be honest we're not sure what to do about it. You've had your first pushing incident that is going on your permanent record, insofar as Montessori keeps permanent records. I really, really, really hope you outgrow this. We're working very hard. It is very strange, as you are so gentle and kind and snuggly.

You recently wanted me to pretend my hand was a baby, so that you could talk to a baby and teach it things. "I take care of babies," you inform me. "I keep everybody safe."