Part Time Poppins

A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child?  I do not know what it is any more than he.

-- Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

Fishing For Facts

Justin is six-and-a-half years old.  He has a mind that soaks in everything
like a cat sunning itself, eyes that see into your soul, and the surprising
belief that since I am an adult, I have the keys to the world's mysteries.
This is surprising to me because, at times, I still have a problem viewing
myself as an adult, much less "Holder of the World's Answers."  Today,
Justin's questions have delved into the numeric realm.

"How long would it take you to count to one million?"  Off the top of my
head, I really don't know, so I stall...I look over at Justin, whose spoon
is poised above his Shredded Wheat.

"Well, that depends upon how quickly one counts, and if one  
counts by ones, or by fives, and how often they pause..."  
Justin isn't buying it.  I know that expression.  It's the "What do you take me  
for, anyway?" expression. Well, I'm stumped.  Without a calculator, I don't  
have the answer.  Which brings me back to the childhood belief that adults are  
omniscient.  Where this belief originated from, I don't know; granted, I have  
more years of experience, but who is more observant--or inquisitive--than a child?   
child?  If Justin asked me what the grass was, I believe his answer would be more
accurate than my own.  I would give him an answer about vegetation and
scientific grouping, and perhaps meander into a speech about the food chain
and the circle of life, but Justin would provide me an answer with heart.

Justin brings me back to the topic, eating a few more bites of cereal before
again poising his spoon in that contemplative position.

"Why don't you know?" he asks.  I smile back at him, wishing I had a
calculator or the ability to "fudge" an answer toward his trusting
countenance.  Unfortunately, (I think) he can tell when I'm fudging, so I
refrain from that altogether.

"Well," I say, "math isn't my strong point..." Justin's thoughtful brown
eyes peer right into me.  She really doesn't know, I can see him think.  He
continues to look at me, one part thoughtful, two parts astonished.  "How
high can you count?" I ask, redirecting his attention.  He pauses
momentarily, thinking about his answer.

"One hundred," he says firmly.

"That's high!" I reply with a smile.  Justin agrees, momentarily dropping
the subject.

Not Off the Hook

Moments later, Zachary comes into the kitchen, his blue eyes still sleepy.

"Good morning!" I say with a smile.  Zachary takes after me when it comes to
sleeping: stay in that bed as long as you can, sleep through any noise, any
light coming on, anything in general.

"Um," Zachary says quietly, "do you know what?"

"What?" I ask.

"Do you know..." Zachary's eyes grow distant as he organizes his question.
"Do you know where my other part to my toy is?"  Again with the stalling.

"Well, which toy?"

Zachary uses all of the patience and composure that his four-year-old body
can muster. I cannot imagine how exasperating it must be to have so much
frustration in such a little body.  I can see that I'm not making any
headway.  I squat down to Zachary's level.

"My new toy," he says quietly.  New toy, new toy, new toy.  My brain
searches the archives between "things to do on a rainy day" and "what to say
when you're really, truly stuck."

"Well, what does your new toy look like?"  Zachary looks at me with the look
that Justin had just given me, and with equal success: She really doesn't
know!

Remembering that adults hold that higher place in a child's point of
reference, I quickly scan the room. New toy, new toy, new toy.  I run over
to an object I've never seen before, brandishing it before Zachary.

"Is this it?" I ask hopefully.  His lower lip begins to quiver.  I am way,
way off. I can sense his frustration and I quickly swipe him up into my
arms. He nestles his head against my shoulder.

"It's the blue one," he murmurs, trying his best to help the supposedly
omniscient one.

Justin looks up from his Game Boy, hearing the strain in little Zachary's
voice.  It is moments like this that I would like to bronze, like one might
bronze a baby's shoes.

"Hey, Zachary," he says, "I think we were playing it in the garage,
remember?"  Zachary's eyes light up.

'Thank you,' I mouth over Zachary's head. I can see in Justin's eyes that he
understands. Omniscient One struck out twice today; no need for three times.
A combination of mercy, brotherly love and helpfulness spares me from
Zachary's further frustration.

Pole Position

Catherine's gentle cries come over the baby monitor and I can hear her
mother, Colleen, gently talking to her.

"She's awake!" yells Justin.  He's already very involved with his little
sister, and I can see that he's looking forward to seeing her.

"Can I sit in your lap?" Zachary asks, aware that Catherine will soon be
requiring much of my attention.

"Of course," I say, as his warm body snuggles into my leg.  Catherine's
little face comes around the corner, all smiles and giggles.

"Good morning!" Colleen warmly calls out to everyone.  We reciprocate
greetings and Catherine transitions from her mother's arms to mine.
Shortly, afterward, Cahtherine is seated in her high chair, eating Cheerios
with gusto.

Zachary contentedly munches on his cereal, while Justin, already done with
his breakfast, approaches the Nintendo with stealth.

"Um, Tracy," he asks.  I smile to myself.  Many questions with the
expectation of a 'no' answer are preceded by a hesitant 'um.'

"Yes?" I ask, knowing what his question will be.

"Can I please play Nintendo?"  I glance at the clock.  It's 
still early but with Justin's merciful assistance and kindness   
toward his brother, my generosity isn't waning.

"Yes, but let's just do it for fifteen minutes, until Zachary's done with
breakfast."  Justin glances at the clock and agrees to the proposal.

Catherine, meanwhile, is making an interesting new noise with her tongue
reverberating off the roof of her mouth.  I first attempt to give her sweet
potatoes, and then green beans, but her baby-purr soon reaches high octaves.
Again, I see that expression: she doesn't know what I want!

Fortunately, I know that Catherine only makes noises when she's in need of
something, so I narrow down the possibilities.  Not tired, not hungry...it
must be the diaper.  After wiping off her face, I take her to the changing
table, find the soiled culprit ready for its disposal, and provide her with
a clean diaper.  Problem solved.

And at the end of the day, I sum up my experiences wryly, readily admitting,
"No, I don't know everything...but it's nice to know that someone thinks
that I do!"