When I was a kid, I swore I’d never forget what it was like. I would always be a sympathetic adult, not like the heartless grownups I encountered when I was young—grownups whose eyes used to slide over me and my outstretched hand at the Sign of Peace. Grownups who basically ignored my existence.
Now that I’m an adult, I always make sure I pay attention to the little people around me at church. And when I see people overlooking my kids’ attempts to connect, I intervene. Alex, go ahead and shake Mrs. X’s hand. Oh, Julianna, are you waving at Mr. Y? Adults notice and respond to that.
However.
Recently I have realized that I don’t have the slightest idea what’s going on inside my children’s heads. And frankly, I don’t really care. I know they’re going to tell me more than I could possibly process, anyway, and none of it is going to get down to the level that would allow me to understand what makes them tick.
I’m fine with that, but it does have its pitfalls—like forgetting that my most insignificant word or action is a matter of fascination and mystery to my children, and is therefore Totally Cool. It makes me laugh to see the things that become fodder for imitation. For instance: Alex gets into the truck with Christian and demands the spiral pad on which we record mileage and gas fills. “I have to write something on my calendar,” he tells his daddy earnestly. He’s channeling his mommy, who keeps all family events, commitments, and to-do lists on a big desk calendar.
“Daddy’s building” is a catchphrase in our house. The Jesse dome is visible all over town, and Alex never fails to notice it. When we go outside to play, he drives his jeep “to my building” (up and down the driveway) and then goes “to my work” (the computer desk) and pretends to work on the computer. A couple of days ago, I made the mistake of leaving my blog open to an “edit post” page. You can imagine what I found when I came back!
At 22 months, Julianna functions more like a 14-month-old, albeit one with a much…much…stronger personality. (It’s a constant matter of confusion and amusement for me, to see how she is and isn’t her chronological age.) So her imitations are much less sophisticated. Tonight at Burger King, Christian was laughing at the sheer volume of food she was stuffing into her mouth—in contrast with Alex, who has to be coaxed, bribed, or threatened to eat, and takes the smallest bites imaginable. “Are you done?” Christian asked. She fixed him with the glare to beat all glares and signed ferociously, “DRINK!” We gave her the cup, and as usual, she gulped as if she hadn’t drunk a drop in three days. Naturally, the next noise we heard was a resounding burp. “Shovel and guzzle,” laughed Christian.
“Just like her daddy,” I observed. (He eats faster than anybody I’ve ever met.)
They see everything. I know that. What I don’t know is what they think of it. They’re a mystery to me, as I am to them—as we all are to each other, come to think of it. But I tend to assume that people follow the same basic set of thought processes that I do, even if we come to different conclusions. Children, however….children are a mystery. What, for instance, goes through Julianna’s head, sitting in our two-person tub with water up to her armpits, when I turn on the jets? What is she thinking as her entire body freezes in place, as she processes this new sensation, just before she begins doing tai chi moves with her arms?
Perhaps I’ll never know.
