One of my favorite things about motherhood is the way my kids force me outside the box of my own head. I like to collect the little moments when their startling pronouncements on life, the universe, and everything jolt me out of my sedate, grown-up patterns of thought and make me reassess my perceptions. Like these:
Jane was five years old and we were at a conference where I had a speaking engagement. At one point, a friend’s teenaged daughter took her to the drinking fountain. She later related this story to her mother, who passed it on to me.
Apparently young Jane was delighted by the arc of the water as it came out of the spout. “Look, I’m drinking a rainbow!” she cried.
Then she took a drink, paused, and added thoughtfully, “That’s funny, I always thought rainbows would be crunchy.”
Beanie was two years old, and I was reading her Dr. Seuss’s There’s a Wocket in my Pocket for the first time.
“Did you ever have the feeling,” I read, “there’s a wasket in your basket?” Bean burst out laughing.
“A wasket in my basket! Dat’s funny.” I continued: “…Or a nureau in your bureau?” Another enormous belly-laugh.
“A nureau in my bureau! Dat’s weally funny!”
By this time I was laughing too. I went on, “…Or a woset in your closet?”
This time, no laugh. She looked puzzled.
“Huh,” she grunted. “A woset in your closet. Dat’s not funny.”
When Rose was two-going-on-three, a friend gave us a “Bunny Bowling Set.” The bowling balls were little plastic cabbages with which you attempted to knock down plastic rabbit-shaped pins. Jane set the game up and played it for a while, then wandered off. I was in the next room, fixing dinner, and heard Rose playing with the game. But she sounded frustrated. I kept hearing her knock the bunnies over with the ball, and then she’d cry out in dismay.
Finally she hollered, “Mommy! It no WORK!” I went to watch her try again. She rolled the cabbage and knocked down half the bunnies.
I cheered. “There you go! You’ve got the hang of it now.”
She looked at me incredulously. “No! It no work,” she said, through gritted teeth.
“Sure it worked!” I said. “Look how many bunnies you hit.”
Her glare was steely with pity and forced patience.
“It—no—work,” she repeated, slowly, as if she were the adult and I the child. “Bunny won’t catch cabbage!”
Charlotte Mason Would Approve
The Secret Life of Scott Peterson, and Other Assorted Nonsense
Six of one, half dozen of the other