hey, little ant

I’m really starting to think maybe nature is more powerful than nurture. I have read Hey, Little Ant to you since February and it has seen a prominent and recurring stint as one of your favorite books. It’s a wonderful rhyming story about a little boy tempted to squish an ant–encouraged to do so by friends and even his mom who argues that ants are rude because “they carry off our picnic food.” The ant eloquently argues his case, saying things like “Oh, big friend, you are so wrong. My nest mates need me, because I’m strong. I build our nest and feed baby ants too. I must not die beneath your shoe.” At the end, the questions are: “Should the ant get squished? (You shout: No!) Should the ant go free? (Yes!) It’s up to the kid, not up to me. We’ll leave the kid with the raised up shoe. What do you think that kid should do?” Great tale.

Well, several days ago I pointed out an ant crawling on your play kitchen and said, “Look, buddy. Hey, Little Ant!” With lightning speed, almost before I’d even finished pointing it out, you brought your hand up high over your head and slammed it down on the little guy. Squish! I was horrified. Traumatized. I scooped up the little black ant, now with a wonky leg, and placed him gently outside, far out of your destructive reach.

Nurture. Nature. Is there any question?!

many thanks, crayola

I dropped you off at your parents’ day out program this morning. We’re at the end of week three of this new, little adventure, and it has not been without its bumps. You cried hard on the first day Daddy and I dropped you off, and so did I. When we asked you about that first day, you admitted, “I kie, kie, kie.” (so sweet) Most school mornings involve at least one “No school bus, Momma” (your way of saying school). I gently remind you of the fun you have and reassure you that today is indeed a “school bus” day. You then set to processing the potential trauma; it goes exactly like this every time: “Momma. Daddy. Bye-bye. I kie.”

“It’s okay to cry a little bit, Bubbee. Momma will see you soon,” I reassure.

Today is gray and rainy, and your slight protest seemed more reasonable to me with those conditions as part of the day’s reality. You didn’t want to walk in on your own, and you were sucking your thumb and snuggling Sleepy Sheepy, trying to center yourself when we peeked into your classroom. You saw the markers and paper laid out on the table, and you nearly leapt from my arms, shouting “coloring!” You do like your markers, Mr. Man. I convinced you to give Sleepy to me, so she wouldn’t get dirty and watched you and the other little people in your class color for a few minutes. When I declared that I needed to go, you said, “No go, Momma.”

“Momma’s gonna go, but I’ll see you this afternoon.”

“Sheepy?”

“You’ll get to see her at naptime. Okay, buddy?”

“K. Bye-bye, Momma.”

Then you blew me a kiss and waved good-bye, our first tear-free day! I feel like I owe Crayola a debt of gratitude! Curiously, the no-tears scene made me sad too. It’s the end of an era. You’re getting to be a big boy, full of independence and fearlessness. Soon, you won’t need Momma at all. It’s all going so, so fast…

laptime

You are a child of motion and have been since leaving the preemie stage. You explore and run and climb. You’re up, then you’re down. But two times a day, you sit very still, and I love it. We read stories before your nap and before bedtime. You sit on my left leg, tucked into the corner of me with your thumb in your mouth and snuggling Sleepy Sheepy. You wiggle very little, absorbed as you are into the story. You lean your sweet head on my chest and follow along by repeating every few words or pointing out parts of the illustrations that interest you. I love this time together. Other than when you are sound asleep, it is you at your sweetest.

all fired up

Engine 14 was all shined up with the doors open, sitting outside the firehouse on 16th when we passed by on our way home last night. I asked you if you wanted to go see it, acknowledging that sometimes these things look cool from a distance and scary up close. You said you wanted to, so I turned around and took you back. A very friendly fireman brought you a helmet and a fire safety activity book. He even told us I could put you up in the engine cab. You were mesmerized…

You gotta love a fire engine that has a 37206 bumper sticker on the back. Aaaah… East Nashville ‘tude.

mcbreakdown

A friend of Momma’s and her little girl (your friend, by association) came over to play on Wednesday.  R (as she will be referred to here) is only two days younger than you are, born early just like you. She’s recently had to have her tonsils and adenoids taken out and has had a difficult time with recovery—refusing to eat or drink because of the pain. Knowing that she didn’t feel well and anticipating the scene that comes when two kids want to play with the same toy at the exact same time simply because the other one is playing with it, I had a little talk with you before they arrived. I explained that she didn’t feel well and that we needed to be nice and do our best to make her feel better—to share toys, to share snacks, to be kind and gentle. You whined over a couple of her toy selections, but you were very gentle and generous, and the two of you actually put a puzzle together as a team. She’d pick out the pieces, and you’d point out where they went. She’d then navigate fitting them in in the right direction, a step that still challenges you sometimes.

Thankfully, you do not know McDonald’s yet, but we thought it might convince R to eat, something she’d really not been doing since the surgery. We were willing to try anything. So you got your first Happy Meal. (Aagh, it pains me to even write that.) Well, neither one of you had any interest in the chicken nuggets or the fries. You sipped a bit of your apple juice, but both of you were feeling distracted by the colorful plastic indoor playground. All I saw when I looked at it was an active breeding ground for super-germs. I finally convinced a single chicken nugget and half a fry into you and decided that was good enough, since it was junk food anyway; you were off to play. You were timid climbing up into the tubes, but once you could see me on each level, you were fine, and you followed my directions about how to get to the next level. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, you were stuck. Looking back, I think you might have freaked out because some other kids were working their way up around you, and maybe you started to feel a little closed in upon. Anyway, you wouldn’t budge. You weren’t listening to my instructions. You couldn’t get out of there on your own, and you started to cry. Hard. I had to go in and get you. Seeing you cry, R started to cry too, and by the time I got to you, I had two arms full of crying, snotty kiddos. I had to fight the panic, because I was literally folded up in those tubes. With the help of a stranger uncle who had to go in after his niece,  got you down to a level where you guys could crawl out to R’s mom. You were sweaty and crying uncontrollably… and asking to go back in and play. What?! Nuh-uh.

I don’t want this experience to have traumatized you for life… or do I? No. I’m pretty sure a phobia is not the best way to discourage Micky Dee’s. We’ll have to think of something else.