Can you tell me?

One of your big rhetorical strategies is now "can you tell me?" 

"What's this?" you'll say, pointing to something in a book.

"What do you think it is?" I say.

"Can you tell me?" you insist. 

"I can, but I'm curious what you think it is," I say.

"I want you to tell me," you say. 

Oftentimes we do this with something you almost certainly already know - a cow, a dump truck. Sometimes it's a joke. You have started making jokes by stating things you know are untrue. E.g. we'll pull up to the house, and you'll smile like you're about to pull a fast one and you'll say "Are we at SCHOOL?"

Sometimes you might actually be asking, as you are learning your colors now, and color is actually a tricky thing to learn. But sometimes I think it's also a ploy for attention, or further engagement. Like last night, when we were watching The Great Muppet Caper for the 90th time, and every minute or two you were saying "What happened? What happened, mama?" My explaining each plot point was like instant replay. I feel like you were doing it to have a conversation with me, and also watch the movie twice.

Then, sometimes, I will tell you that I don't know how something works, or what something does, and you will say "I can tell you, mama." And then you will explain. Not always accurately, of course, but I enjoy the authority with which you stand ready to help me make sense of the world. 

The Once and Future King

You are in a period of being fascinated with King Arthur. We have been reading "The Kitchen Knight," and several different Arthur stories, and knight books, and castle books, and we finally showed you the old Disney film "The Sword in the Stone," which is a somewhat bizarre tale with very few characters, most of whom spend the film transforming into various kinds of animals, which is somehow supposed to further Arthur's education so he can be king. But the upshot is that we spent the past weekend fabricating a knight helmet, shield, sword, and stone out of which to pull the sword from empty cardboard boxes, and also you have deduced from one of your picture books that there might be such a thing as toy castles and knights and Round Tables, and have asked me earnestly if you can have one. So, for your upcoming third birthday, I have been scouring the corners of the internet in search of a complete vintage 1974 Fisher Price Little People Play Family Castle, complete with knight, horse, carriage, king, queen, prince, princess, round table, and pink dragon. These things are collectible now, and cost about a zillion dollars, but they are so very cool, and you want something like this so very much, and you play with our old Little People stuff so much more than you play with just about anything else that I am telling myself it is worth it. The other day you and I jousted against the evil Red Knight of the Red Plain (the flagpole at Fort Sewall), then scaled the tall tower to free the imprisoned Lady Linesse or, as you put it, "die in the attempt!" (That's a line from the book.) You have outgrown your original flag cowboy boots and I have obtained new ones patterned in spider webs that light up - good footwear for knights. You want to fight dragons, and so our stuffed plush Christmas moose has agreed to dress up and pretend to be a dragon, though you periodically reassure him that you're not really a knight, you're just Charles dressed up as a knight. The moose is relieved, as he isn't really a dragon, either. 

Because we have stepped tentatively into classic animation, with only a few missteps (Peter Pan! Colossally racist against Native people! Things I did not remember, and now I get to explain why we don't watch Peter Pan anymore), we have lately added Alice in Wonderland. My favorite malapropism of our screening yesterday was when you were drawing a picture of "the treasure cat" (Cheshire cat). 

"That's not Sir Kay, that's me," you explain to me at one of the pictures in the Kitchen Knight as we snuggle in pillows at bedtime. "And that's you," you say, pointing to Gareth of Orkney. I love that you want us to ride and fight dragons together, or die in the attempt.

Can You Read?

Yesterday you and I were on our way to Montessori. In our car my phone synchs with the display screen, and it will often cycle through previous destinations on the GPS map program, offering suggestions in case we want to go there again. As we went through downtown Marblehead the GPS momentarily offered to direct us to the Farmer's Market at the middle school.

From the back seat, you said "Where is Farmer's Market?"

I said, "What?"

"Farmer's Market," you said. "Where is Farmer's Market?"

"What made you think of the Farmer's Market?" I asked, looking at you in the rearview mirror. You didn't answer.

"Did you see Farmer's Market on the GPS screen?" I asked. 

You sort of waggled your head while looking out the window, your mind apparently already on other things, probably hats, because you are very into hats these days, we typically have two or three in the car for quick costume changes. The current candidates are a firefighter helmet, a WWI flying ace goggles hat, and your baseball hat from IYRS School of Technology and Trades. But *something* definitely put you in mind of the farmer's market, because later in the day you were playing "farmer's market stall" and offering me imaginary vegetables, saying "Here you go mama," and then telling me you were selling fish food. We've only been to the farmer's market once this summer, when you grandparents were here, and it was several weeks ago now. 

I told your dad this story was we settled into bed with our books last night. "Can you read?" you dad asked you disbelieving.

"No," you said.

But frankly, Succotash, I have my doubts. Are you holding out on us? Can you read?

Treasure

Yesterday you came dashing in the door from Montessori shouting "Mommy I have a treasure map!" You had drawn it at school, and you excitedly showed me which part was land and which part was water, and wondered if I would go on the water part in my boat (it was a sailing night). "I need my treasure hat!" you bellowed. I love how serious you are about hats these days. Every enterprise must have its own proper hat, be it firefighting or baseball or construction work or being a "horse rider." You hurried to the front porch to retrieve your treasure hat, aka your red scooter helmet with your name and "Mayhem" on the back, picked up a blue sandbox shovel, and hurried outside with your dad and grandparents.

A few minutes later, you burst into the kitchen to present me with the treasure you had found - a mostly deflated white balloon from our July 4 party. "It's a diamond, mama!" you said, with your excited-mouth open smile that love and want to smother with kisses whenever I see it. 

Alice

 We began the summer, a month ago, as denizens of the baby pool. Which you quickly corrected to "the kid-sized pool." After a first foray into the big pool in which you accidentally stepped off a step without your floaties on and dunked under water, you informed me that you didn't like the big pool. You liked the kid sized pool. Which was okay with me.

I'm not sure what changed. Maybe it was swimming lessons at JCC day camp. Maybe it was the afternoon at Gas House Beach when you and I went in together, and had fun dunking slowly and popping up, catching our breath with the cold salt water closing over our shoulders and the leaping back up laughing. Whatever it is, there's been a complete turnaround. 

One afternoon you determined to put on your floaties and we tried the steps to the big pool. You were careful going down the steps. You looked up at me, beaming. "I didn't go far underwater!" you said. I asked if you wanted to try floating. You did. You launched into my arms and we floated together, and then you wanted to float by yourself. And now you love to swim! "Kick kick kick!" I said, laughing, moving a little further away, offering you a kickboard if you wanted something to hold (like me, you often feel more secure with something in your hands, like a car or a stick). You paddle-kicked over to a floating foam rubber ball you wanted. Then we decided to paddle-kick across the width of the pool. "Will you go with me mama?" you asked, and I promised you I would. And you did it! I couldn't believe it!

You can spin yourself in a circle! You're practicing keeping your mouth closed, but you are usually grinning so big your mouth is open, so it's hard. Yesterday you wanted your dad and me to fetch diving rings from the bottom of the deep end. My ears don't like the pressure, but your dad gamely dove down, rising up underneath you like a Leviathan.

On our first couple of days of loving the big pool, you and I would go to the kid sized pool to take breaks. On one of these breaks we broke out your mermaid Barbie. She has pink and blue hair, and I got her for you after you seriously coveted some other mermaids belonging to some baby friends. This time I asked, "What is your mermaid's name?" Without a moment's hesitation, you said "Alice!"

Alice, you have informed me, is good swimmer. You also are good swimmer. And so yesterday, we didn't even go in the kid sized pool. You, Alice, your dad, and I romped in the big pool the entire time. At the end, you wanted to take your floaties off and didn't want me to hold you, which fills me with terror as you haven't technically learned to hold your breath and swim and stuff. But you also wanted to go off the big diving board again.

My fearless water baby. So brave. You seem to have just made up your mind that now you know how to swim. And you almost do! I could not be more proud of you.

July 5

You are upstairs with your grandparents, and I just heard the opening strains of "An American in Paris" strike up in the family room. We are all exhausted. Yesterday we threw our first July 4 party since before COVID, gathering friends and neighbors and family in the pocket garden on a warm and sunny day, under our black and white stripey umbrella. Your uncle brought a keg, which almost no one drank, and which your dad and I had to return today before picking you up at Montessori. We have thrown this party (almost) every year since 2005, barring one depressing year marooned in Ithaca, and then two years of COVID. The first year all attendees were literally passed out on air mattresses scattered all over our Middle Street apartment. Yesterday the garden was overrun with kids chasing each other through shrubbery and wreaking havoc in the water table, and by last night almost everyone had wandered home early. While a few holdouts went down to the fort to watch fireworks, you and I retired upstairs for a long shower - you were very focused combing my hair as I sat crosslegged before you on the tile, and then you told me that you had given me a haircut - and then we put on our "pajammies" and watched the last of the fireworks from our bedroom window.

"I like fireworks," you said. "I like all the colors."

Then you asked me, "What are you thinking of, Mommy?"

I told you I was thinking about you, and how much a I love you, and how happy I was to be watching fireworks with you. All that was true, but I was also remembering being a child about your age, with my parents and grandparents at the Houston Yacht Club, and how the noise upset me so much that I had to watch them from the bar upstairs with my mother. I remember the fireworks exploding over Galveston Bay in complete silence, the glacial cold and darkness of the bar, looking out over the pool and boat basin. I was thinking about how that's why I associate sailing with July 4, and how we have that boat now, that I'm trying to keep alive another 20 years to give you, and how much my grandparents, Mere and Charles, would have adored you. And how I miss having conversations with my mother, and how badly she would have wanted to be involved with you, if she could. But I am happy that we have Ama and Poppop, and how we are doing our best to make you feel that you live in a community of benevolent adults and big kids who care for you. And how you are so much braver than I am. Your dad and I dream of instilling in your the kind of casual confidence we both observed in all the Harvard kids we taught back in grad school, which neither of us, for whatever reason, has ever felt. 

You are crushing a little on Larkin, who is 8 or 9 and lives up the street, and is wise beyond her years. Her family is new in town, from San Francisco, and her youngest sister Avery is your age. You and Avery like each other and play, but you looooove Larkin. And she is kind and solicitous of you. You are at a point of being ready to play with other kids, but not really knowing how to make it happen. Sometimes when you want another kid's attention you demand it with a smack, or by chucking water at them. You don't know how to find the words to express what you feel, which is - I don't have older siblings. I crave your attention and approval. You know things about being a kid that I don't. Will you teach me? Please?

Our friends Kett and Peter, who is slightly younger than you (3 months? 4?) left this morning right after you left for summer Montessori. We love them, but it was an exhausting five days, for me because I felt keenly how in charge I was, and for you because having your routine disrupted and another small kid in your space was just a big ask, for that length of time. At one point you clocked Peter on top of the head with a block of wood right after I told you to give him some space, and it was definitely not my finest parenting moment. But it wasn't your fault. You're 2 1/2! You don't entirely understand Peter is also a person, who can get hurt. (He wasn't, fortunately.) It was also strange to see how different you and Peter are. He is much more tentative, much less verbal. Curious about you, fascinated really, wanting to do everything you were doing, but I didn't observe a conversation between you until the party, when you both hung on the fence observing the world go by. "See that car?" he'd ask you. "Yes, I see it!" you'd answer. "That's my house!" Peter said, pointing at the church. "That's not your house," you said, laughing at his joke. At one point you turned to me and said "You know both our names? I'm Charles, and this my friend Peter." It went far to undo my lingering angst over the wooden block to the head. 

This is the first writing I've had time to do in a month. You did a week of day camp at the JCC, which struck me as sort of a mixed bag, but which you claimed to enjoy. You were skilled at coopting a cute young blond counselor all for yourself, which I found charming. Like a lot of only children, you gravitate to older kids and people. You're not hugely interested in other little kids. To be fair, neither am I. 

You are back at Harborlight, though, as of today, and my hope is that we will settle into a new normal routine, where you feel secure and learn and grow while I do the gazillion pages of writing I am expected to submit in November. 

Your dad and I are wondering how we can extricate ourselves from New York. But now that you have had your first COVID vaccine shot - praise all beings worthy of praise - I wonder if we will start to feel like we don't have to be as shut off as we have been. If we can find a way to venture forth into the world, and bring you with us. 

Summer

It's hot today in the city, and you have just gone back to Montessori. We have two more weeks of school before we flee to Marblehead for the summer, and I am already antsy and wanting to go. I want to go wading with you, and have bare feet in the grass, and be lazy, and blow bubbles. 

We spent Memorial Day weekend here, in a heat wave, taking you on mild adventures. You took a short subway ride, and then we rode the funicular to Roosevelt Island, where we played in the grass and pretended to feed sweetgums to Mr. Snuffleupagus. We reenacted various scenes from Mary Poppins - you love the part where the kids jump into the chalk picture Bert drew on the sidewalk. We rode the ferry to Roosevelt Island one day, and home again, and then home again the next day after our funicular adventure, and then across the river to Brooklyn to picnic with Will and Irina and Clara while you played in a sprinkler. Clara, who is five, regards you with the impatience and suspicion of an older sister. Like Felix, who is also five, she grows agitated if you don't play "right" with something. My heart aches for a you a little, my baby who looks older than he is, who wants nothing more than the approving attention of big kids. But overall I'd say we had a good time, and your dad and I realized how starved we were for talking with adults other than each other. 

We're in yet another COVID surge, and your dad and I are chafing against tight strictures and stifling routine. We finally elected to take you to a different restaurant this weekend, one with spacious outdoor seating and a bartender who somehow didn't understand how to make a margarita. You sat very patiently almost the entire time, but had to get up and scramble around eventually. You are 2 1/2. Or maybe you are 2 3/4 at this point? Either way, you look big, but you are small.

Your new thing is to suggest "How about X" when answering a question, or having an idea. I'll say, Succotash, what was your favorite thing that happened today? And you might say "How about, riding the ferry with you guys?"

You still love dancing. The other day you and I scrambled over to St. Vartan and you ran at top speed almost the whole way, hollering "Siiinging in the raiin! Daaancing in the raaaiinn!" 

You have begun asking about the pool, and even asking about the boat. Sometimes you remark that you are sad that our dog died, which is interesting to me, as I'm surprised you would remember Milo, who died last August. I still talk about him sometimes, so maybe it's less a memory than a story you are telling yourself about our family, that we had a dog, and we loved him, and he died. But you did describe him accurately the other day, so who knows?

I'm wondering what to do about weaning. Nursing is starting to wear on me, but it's so important to you, and I still have some conviction that it's been able to keep you healthy throughout this wretched, seeming world-ending moment we've been living through. You have never (so far) had Covid. I read suggestions and guides and then I get emotional and then I think, is it really so bad? Can't we just keep going until you outgrow it? Everyone outgrows it. Don't they? I once asked you how long you thought you would nurse for, and asked if you were going to stop when you were three. You said yes. I wonder if we can move toward that. 

I can't wait for this summer with you. Day camp! Montessori! Sailing! Pool! Please, summer, come. Set us free.