On the empathy of a toddler

March 1, 2010


I couldn’t do it any better. None of us could. Not one, not a single person.

Not unless you, too, were two years old. Not unless you, too, were so filled with innocence; your heart still sporting an unbroken seal, the cotton still lodged firmly in the top, clogging the cynicism, soaking in the barbs.

Still shielding doubt. Still accepting the pain of others as your own.

This is still how Sierra sees the world, and it might be both the tenderest and the most genuine thing I’ve ever seen. Her friends? Their hurt is her hurt. Her parents? Our sadness is her sadness.

“When Isaac cries, it makes me sad,” she says. And it’s that honesty – that unbridled empathy – that I have yet to experience in anyone else.

As we grow and live and understand that some people use emotions as weapons and every unit of communication can be a war, we can’t help but to sometimes doubt sadness. We lose our ability to empathize. Little by little, it calluses. The seal long gone, all that remains is a quarter teaspoon of aspirin dust and the dull shake of the remaining pills.

Outside of a few select friends and loved ones, we protect ourselves from being manipulated. And just like that, our culture begins seeing empathy as weakness.

I still like to think I feel it. I know I do with those I love. With those in awful situations. I might even be more sensitive to others’ pain than most, if routinely tearing up during certain Ben Folds songs is any indication.

But not like Sierra. Not like any two year old. Unwilling to accept that people can be bad, they still believe in empathy. And they use it without understanding how much it means to the rest of us.

Tags: On..., Sierra |

3 Comments

On trying not to let a second child’s accomplishments go without fanfare

February 21, 2010


Poor, poor Isaac.

Every day was a new experience with Sierra. Every single day, every single noise and movement and milestone was fresh. Uncharted and unknown; an unfilled captain’s log, we learned to figure things up as we go.

And as we scribbled in notes and made adjustments on the fly, like coaches throwing everything we could at an undefeated team, we couldn’t help but stand back and marvel at the growth – that this child had not only completely taken over the game, but had also improved from quarter to quarter, beating our psyche into submission, forcing us to let go of the assumptions we had brought in.

Sierra didn’t learn how to be a person as much as she taught us how to be parents. To let things happen. To reach only when reaching seemed productive.

Sierra got all of the attention. And even now, as the first of our children to grow older, always poised to be the first child to break through each checkpoint, she still commands most of it.

Isaac is eight months old. And it doesn’t feel like he’s even been around that long. His milestones come and go. We notice them. We celebrate them. But they don’t last as long.

There’s no time to dwell.

To be honest, there never was. Much of it is perspective. Isaac grows just as Sierra grew. We react just as we did the first time around. But the reaction isn’t as drawn out, not as noteworthy. It’s just as special. It’s simply not as singular.

But I still feel bad for the little guy sometimes. I guess if Sierra taught us to calm down and let life happen, Isaac’s furthering the lesson by reminding us not to let it happen too fast.

Poor, poor Isaac.

Tags: Isaac, Sierra |

1 Comment

To the woman beep-beeping at the grocery store.

December 7, 2009


To the woman at the grocery store. The one who, along with her two-year old daughter, walked along the aisles, happily and loudly beep-beeping her way through the cereal aisle despite the looks from other customers, as if there was nothing in the world that could stop her from enjoying a moment of spontaneity with a child. One 30-year-old and one toddler, one pushing and one riding in a car-shaped cart, one turning corners and one spinning the steering wheel, absolutely shielded from life’s conventions.

To that woman: Thank you. For reminding me that I’m not overstepping the limits of polite society when I decide to stoop to my daughter’s level and begin making fart noises at the gas station. And especially for giving me a little hope that most parents - despite their public seriousness - are all made more human by the weirdness of a two-year-old’s mind.

Tags: Isaac, On..., Sierra |

2 Comments

Beegelbed

November 24, 2009


“Beegelbed”

This is not a word. It has never entered our minds, never left our mouth, never been created. In the history of words, it is nothing.

That is, until now.

Because, you see, it’s not enough for Sierra to learn words at a frightening pace. No. Now, she’s making up her own.

Except, here’s the rub: We’re not sure if she’s making it up, or if we’re simply NOT UNDERSTANDING HER.

Sierra is two. Which means she’s at the age of rapid comprehension, when thoughts are quickly made into words. This is the stage of addition, fast enough that pronunciation and context is an afterthought. Refining the language will come later on.

It’s thrilling. New words pour out of her, and understanding of grammar and diction increases. For a couple of wordhounds, it’s like magic. We’re seeing the connection between verbal and actual, the evolution of thought into communication.

And because we’re always there, we understand her quirks. We know what she means, even if others can’t decipher it. Because, again, she’s two. Which means she’s constantly walking the thin line between universal conversation and frustration.

And then, there’s “beegelbed.”

We’ve asked. “What’s a beegelbed?” (She smiles and says, “Nooooo.”)

Okay. “What’s a beegelbed say,” we ask, assuming it’s an animal. (She smiles again. This is all very funny.)

We sound out different things. “Beagle Bed?” “Beetle Bug?” “Beat Elwood?”

Nothing. For now.

And it will stay nothing. Because really, all we have to do is wait. Within a few weeks, the word will have disappeared, either sucked up into distant memory or honed to the point of understanding. Eventually, it won’t be the words she’s questioning, but concepts. Why is the sky blue and all of that. Give it a few years, and we’ll be wondering how she learned so much, how she ever ended up at our level, carrying on a real conversation about school and her friends and some random television program that we’ll never understand because we lost our ability to comprehend teenage humor a long time ago.

We’ll wonder where the time went. We’ll long for the days where her words were first starting to burst forth.

Until then, though, I’ll just sit confused, uneasily wondering what she could mean by “beegelbed.”

Tags: Sierra, Words |

2 Comments

Gold stars

October 18, 2009


There’s a green star stuck to the coaster. There are two gold stars on the floor, about three feet apart. There are worn stars scattered around the carpet; points curled, foil tarnished, backsides no longer sticky. Everywhere we turn, star stickers turn up.

The sheet upon which the stickers once lived, pulled fresh and untouched from its package just three days ago, is now battered, half-bare and folded, manhandled by wet, greedy hands.

From that sheet to the floor? What’s the progression? How do star stickers find themselves separated from their backing and borne into the wild?

First, Sierra must use the potty. Successfully. No release, no star.

Then, the dominoes begin falling. The potty: Dump. Flush. Rinse. Sierra: Wipe. Wash. Dry.

That Sierra took it upon herself to begin potty training is both frustrating and inspired. Naturally, we weren’t ready. I don’t think any parent has ever been ready. Sure, we might have said to ourselves, “Hey, maybe it’s time to let our child use the bathroom on his/her own.” But no one is really ready when it begins – when the diapers come off and the pull-ups and underwear and toilet paper and accidents and constant sitting and crouching and waiting and waiting and waiting finally take place.

Maybe Sierra was aware of that anxiety. Maybe she was fully aware that, unless she took charge and got the ball rolling, she’d never get to wear the new underwear we’d purchased months ago.

She’d never get to sit and read on the toilet. She’d never get to wash her hands seven or eight times a day.

She’d never get to start depositing star stickers throughout the house.

Oh. There’s another one stuck to my sock.

It’s blue.

Tags: Home, Sierra, Vilhauer |

Comment

16-Page Read: Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?

September 23, 2009


Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You? By Dr. Seuss

Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?At some point, kids memorize their favorite books.

They know exactly what happens on every page, and while they may not technically read a book cover to cover, they offer the illusion that they’re reading every word.

The first time I was aware of this with Sierra was with Mr. Brown Can Moo, Can You?

It wasn’t just the easy animals. She already knew that cows mooed and birds chirped and she could make the sounds, even if they were a little off. She tried to snort for a pig and instead just spit all over the place. She was sure horses said “geigh,” and sheep always uttered “ba ba black sheep.”

It was the tougher stuff, too. Lightning goes splat? Well of course it does, and now, she’s able to anticipate that page with lightning-like quickness. Butterflies whisper whisper. Horns blurp. Big cats slurp.

Every noise was a new experience, soaked up as only a toddler can. And from there, the noises were no longer new, but standard, as if our child came complete with a full set of onomatopoeias at her instant disposal, rattling off a cock-a-doodle-doo at simply the mention of a rooster, or a sizzle sizzle when seeing a frying pan.

Mr. Brown was Sierra’s favorite book for about a month, which in her mind is nearly an eternity. And though it’s a longer book – I’ll take an 8-page Sandra Boynton book at bedtime any day – it was never difficult to get through.

I suspect it has a lot to do with her understanding – her ability to match picture to sound to real life experience. The synapses are firing, now, and before long she’ll be surprising us with things we never knew existed.

It’s what makes me laugh at 3 in the morning when Sierra, awake and ready for the day despite my bleary eyes and unkempt disposition, relays to me with excitement usually reserved for Christmas.

There’s thunder outside.

It’s going BOOM BOOM BOOM!

There isn’t. And it’s not. But her relaying of sound from Mr. Brown shows how much her imagination has grown in the past year.

And despite the time, and the darkness, and the fact that I’ll now spend the next 15 minutes in a trance, attempting to get her back to sleep, I understand that this curiosity and imagination might be one of the most beautiful things in the world.

Tags: 16-Page Read, Books, Literature, Sierra |

Comment

The evolutionary benefits of smiling

September 18, 2009


It’s hard to compare two children. Especially if they’re yours. And especially if they’re born only two years apart. You’re just learning one and another comes along, and their escapades blur together as children, not as two individuals.

Despite this, one thing is for certain. Sierra never smiled this much.

With Sierra, each smile needed to be coaxed, as if they were sold at a premium and she needed to make sure she got her money’s worth. She wasn’t a sad baby, or a solemn baby – she was studious and calm and centered, and she only smiled when it was deemed necessary. She wasn’t unhappy. But she was serious.

Isaac, on the other hand, doles smiles out like a politician.

I wonder if there’s a genetic predisposition – an evolutionary trait, developed millenniums ago, when parents died earlier and children were more difficult to take care of – that pushes more smiles onto a second or third child.

After all, by this point, we’re learning alongside Sierra. Everything she does is new to us, while everything Isaac does has been done before.

So he smiles. All the time. It’s infectious, and it dares – I mean “WHY ARE YOU LOOKING OVER THERE I SWEAR YOU’D BETTER RETHINK YOUR ACTIONS” dares – you to smile along, thusly shifting attention from Sierra’s newest word or book to Isaac’s inability to be upset about anything.

And with that attention captured, you’re conditioned to provide for them. Both children live, genes are passed on, evolution occurs. It would sound implausible, if it wasn’t so utterly convincing. Why else would a second child be so different in the arena of smiling?

Because, man. That kid smiles.

A lot.

Tags: Isaac, Sierra |

Comment

Next Page →