Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Just a-swingin'
Much is made in baby books of the phenomenon of "firsts": first tooth, first word, first haircut. But in their degree of significance to parent and child, all "firsts" are not created equal. Many, in fact, are much more satisfying to the older generation. A baby's first smile is a priceless reward for months of pregnancy, hours of labor, and days of insufficient sleep. And surely it is a greater relief to the parents when a baby first sleeps through the night or a toddler discovers the proper use for his potty.
Other "firsts", I think, are momentous for parent and child alike, but for different reasons. Imagine the exhileration and freedom a child might feel the first time he takes a few steps, rides his bike down the street or earns his driver's license, and the trepidation and pang of loss his parents experience at the same instant.
Then there are those "firsts" that loom larger in a child's mind than in his parents'. For instance, Max has become fixated lately on the idea of losing his first tooth. Even though I've assured him that he still has 3 years to go, more or less, he is vigilant for signs of the first wiggle.
Max crossed another of these symbolic thresholds this week. A couple of days ago the kids were playing on the swingset. Max had been asking me to push him higher and higher on the swing, when suddenly he leaned back, pulled hard with his arms, and launched himself skyward. In a split second, Max's world was transformed. Each time he pulled with his arms and straightened his legs, he chanted: "I can do it! I can do it! I can do it!" After a few swings of his own, Max asked me to push him higher still, but now that was impossible: his own trajectory was taking him as far as the swing would go. After awhile, Max became convinced he could go no higher. Then at the apex of his swing, in that moment of suspension between upward momentum and gravity, he shouted triumphantly: "I never give up!"
Every significant accomplishment in a child's life deserves to be witnessed by at least one adoring fan, and yesterday Max was blessed with two. Each time Max let out a self-congratulatory cry, Boo responded with a gleeful laugh. I have probably said this before, and I will surely say it again: no sound on earth gladdens my heart more than that of my boys joined by mutual delight.
Other "firsts", I think, are momentous for parent and child alike, but for different reasons. Imagine the exhileration and freedom a child might feel the first time he takes a few steps, rides his bike down the street or earns his driver's license, and the trepidation and pang of loss his parents experience at the same instant.
Then there are those "firsts" that loom larger in a child's mind than in his parents'. For instance, Max has become fixated lately on the idea of losing his first tooth. Even though I've assured him that he still has 3 years to go, more or less, he is vigilant for signs of the first wiggle.
Max crossed another of these symbolic thresholds this week. A couple of days ago the kids were playing on the swingset. Max had been asking me to push him higher and higher on the swing, when suddenly he leaned back, pulled hard with his arms, and launched himself skyward. In a split second, Max's world was transformed. Each time he pulled with his arms and straightened his legs, he chanted: "I can do it! I can do it! I can do it!" After a few swings of his own, Max asked me to push him higher still, but now that was impossible: his own trajectory was taking him as far as the swing would go. After awhile, Max became convinced he could go no higher. Then at the apex of his swing, in that moment of suspension between upward momentum and gravity, he shouted triumphantly: "I never give up!"
Every significant accomplishment in a child's life deserves to be witnessed by at least one adoring fan, and yesterday Max was blessed with two. Each time Max let out a self-congratulatory cry, Boo responded with a gleeful laugh. I have probably said this before, and I will surely say it again: no sound on earth gladdens my heart more than that of my boys joined by mutual delight.
Friday, April 22, 2005
Rays of hope
Max's favorite television show is a cartoon called Stanley. The main character is a boy Max's age who loves animals. Stanley has three pets: a dog, a cat and a fish named Dennis. In each episode, Stanley learns about a particular animal by looking it up in his "Great Big Book of Everything," which is an encyclopedia of the animal kingdom. Max is fascinated by the idea of such a book. In fact, he has dubbed the wonderful book, The New Way Things Work, his great big book of everything (which it is, sort of, since it explains many scientific and engineering concepts in ways that even I can understand).
Recently Max and I were watching an episode of Stanley in which Dennis concludes that he is no longer Stanley's best friend and decides to run away from home. As Dennis is preparing to leave his fish tank, he sings longingly about what his friendship with Stanley has meant to him and how he'll never forget him. "Mommy, Dennis is sad!" I looked over at Max. His mouth was contorted in despair, tears spilling out of his eyes. Dennis was sad, and so was Max.
But I was very, very happy...not happy that Max was in such distress, but happy that Max could so thoroughly experience someone else's distress. Because in my more neurotic moments, when Max has pushed or hit or bitten someone yet again, I've actually wondered whether he might lack some fundamental capacity for empathy (which, after all, is one of the distinguishing characteristics of psychopaths). At least now I can dispense with that (somewhat irrational) fear. It doesn't completely solve my problem or Max's, but it offers me relief and hope.
This morning, I was blessed with another ray of hope. Araceli and her daughter, Karen, had already arrived by the time Max, Boo and I returned home from an early romp in the park. Karen was sitting outside on the bench looking despondent. Max approached Karen and asked what was wrong. "I can't watch T.V. today because I'm in a time out." Max thought this through for a minute. Then he went into the yard, picked a single white flower and offered it to Karen. "This is for you. Do you feel better now?" Karen shook her head. I headed inside to make lunch, then turned to look out the window. Max had situated himself right beside Karen on the bench and draped his arm around her shoulder. Neither was speaking; Max was just sitting in solidarity with her, sharing her burden. And when he began to gently rub her back, I burst out laughing.
I could expound on the multitude of feelings I had as I looked on: amusement and delight and confusion and fear. But I'm going to table those thoughts for another day. Tonight I'm going to rest on my growing confidence that Max can experience his own feelings and can understand that other people have them, too. Some people never get either of those right.
P.S. Dennis didn't leave after all. What a relief!
Recently Max and I were watching an episode of Stanley in which Dennis concludes that he is no longer Stanley's best friend and decides to run away from home. As Dennis is preparing to leave his fish tank, he sings longingly about what his friendship with Stanley has meant to him and how he'll never forget him. "Mommy, Dennis is sad!" I looked over at Max. His mouth was contorted in despair, tears spilling out of his eyes. Dennis was sad, and so was Max.
But I was very, very happy...not happy that Max was in such distress, but happy that Max could so thoroughly experience someone else's distress. Because in my more neurotic moments, when Max has pushed or hit or bitten someone yet again, I've actually wondered whether he might lack some fundamental capacity for empathy (which, after all, is one of the distinguishing characteristics of psychopaths). At least now I can dispense with that (somewhat irrational) fear. It doesn't completely solve my problem or Max's, but it offers me relief and hope.
This morning, I was blessed with another ray of hope. Araceli and her daughter, Karen, had already arrived by the time Max, Boo and I returned home from an early romp in the park. Karen was sitting outside on the bench looking despondent. Max approached Karen and asked what was wrong. "I can't watch T.V. today because I'm in a time out." Max thought this through for a minute. Then he went into the yard, picked a single white flower and offered it to Karen. "This is for you. Do you feel better now?" Karen shook her head. I headed inside to make lunch, then turned to look out the window. Max had situated himself right beside Karen on the bench and draped his arm around her shoulder. Neither was speaking; Max was just sitting in solidarity with her, sharing her burden. And when he began to gently rub her back, I burst out laughing.
I could expound on the multitude of feelings I had as I looked on: amusement and delight and confusion and fear. But I'm going to table those thoughts for another day. Tonight I'm going to rest on my growing confidence that Max can experience his own feelings and can understand that other people have them, too. Some people never get either of those right.
P.S. Dennis didn't leave after all. What a relief!
Monday, April 18, 2005
Won't Babee be surprised?
Boo has an interesting vocabulary for a child of 18 months. Some of the words are ones that you might expect--short, with easily pronouncable consonants: duck, hat, cat, hot, cow, ball, book, baby. Then there's a constellation of words, all of which Boo pronounces "oosh." These include juice, shoe, horse and orange. I have to rely on body language (handing me his tennis shoe or sippy cup) or accompanying animal noise to decipher his meaning. And then there are the suprising words--backpack, notebook, umbrella, crayon, waffle--that leave me wondering what other words he may know but just isn't bothering to say.
I'm also curious about what's missing from Boo's vocabulary. So far, in the Food category, Boo is content to use cracker ("crock"), which can signify either crackers or cereal, and juice, which also means "I'm thirsty," since he uses this while tugging at the hem of my shirt. ("Banana", which was one of his earliest words, has been tabled for awhile.) Perhaps he's simply being pragmatic: "Cracker and juice produce results, so I might as well economize." Come to think of it, that theory synchs up nicely with Boo's disposition.
The words and related noises that get the most play around our house are those related to animals. Boo has recently added to his repertoire of animal sounds a chirpy "ribbit" and "bop-a-doo," which you might recognize as belonging to a rooster. After I've put Boo down for bed or when he first wakes up, I often hear him scrolling through his verbal menagerie: "Cat, meow, cow, moo, woof, oosh, neigh, baaaaa."
For reasons unbeknownst to me, cats seem to have captured Boo's imagination right now. When we're reading Good Night Moon, Boo will point and shout out "Cat!" at every page on which the kittens appear. Last week, as we pulled into the driveway of Nancy's house in Madisonville, Boo began to exclaim excitedly, "Cat!" A few days ago, I came across a picture of Nancy in a publication from Max's school. When Boo caught sight of her, his response was "Cat!" And on Friday, while Max and I attended chapel at his school, Nancy supervised Reed in the back of the sanctuary. As we were leaving, she asked if I could hear Boo periodically yell, "Cat!" She may be Grandma Nancy to Max, but evidently she's Catwoman to Boo.
With Max as his role model, it's no surpise that Boo has an intense interest in animals. By far Max's favorite game is "What Animal Am I?" We usually play in the car using audio clues, but one evening we spontaneously added a visual component. It started when Max walked through the den on all fours, roaring, and I asked if he was being a bear. I don't think he expected me to respond in kind.
I stretched my neck as far as it would reach and began munching on imaginary leaves.
"You're a giraffe!"
"Yes!"
Max stood on one leg, bending the other one at the knee.
"Are you a flamingo?"
"Yes!"
I sat up straight, turned my head from side to side, blinked my eyes and tried to look wise. "Whoot. Whoot."
"You're an owl!"
"Right!"
Max began to slither across the rug.
"Are you a snake?"
"No! I'm an animal that has no arms and no legs."
"Are you a worm?"
"YES!"
"Good one!"
I crouched on all fours, shifted my weight to my hands and kicked one leg into the air. "Hee-haw," I brayed.
"You're a donkey with a broken leg!"
"A donkey with a broken leg?! How could you tell that?"
"Because one of your legs goes up and the other one sticks out the other way!"
Over the weekend, Max was making an inventory of people and their pets: "We have two pets. Harley and Cassie are dogs. Grandma Nancy was one pet. Sam is a cat. Babee doesn't have any pets. Zero pets. Mommy, Babee needs a pet. We need to get her a fish!" Lucky for Babee, Mother's Day is just around the corner.
I'm also curious about what's missing from Boo's vocabulary. So far, in the Food category, Boo is content to use cracker ("crock"), which can signify either crackers or cereal, and juice, which also means "I'm thirsty," since he uses this while tugging at the hem of my shirt. ("Banana", which was one of his earliest words, has been tabled for awhile.) Perhaps he's simply being pragmatic: "Cracker and juice produce results, so I might as well economize." Come to think of it, that theory synchs up nicely with Boo's disposition.
The words and related noises that get the most play around our house are those related to animals. Boo has recently added to his repertoire of animal sounds a chirpy "ribbit" and "bop-a-doo," which you might recognize as belonging to a rooster. After I've put Boo down for bed or when he first wakes up, I often hear him scrolling through his verbal menagerie: "Cat, meow, cow, moo, woof, oosh, neigh, baaaaa."
For reasons unbeknownst to me, cats seem to have captured Boo's imagination right now. When we're reading Good Night Moon, Boo will point and shout out "Cat!" at every page on which the kittens appear. Last week, as we pulled into the driveway of Nancy's house in Madisonville, Boo began to exclaim excitedly, "Cat!" A few days ago, I came across a picture of Nancy in a publication from Max's school. When Boo caught sight of her, his response was "Cat!" And on Friday, while Max and I attended chapel at his school, Nancy supervised Reed in the back of the sanctuary. As we were leaving, she asked if I could hear Boo periodically yell, "Cat!" She may be Grandma Nancy to Max, but evidently she's Catwoman to Boo.
With Max as his role model, it's no surpise that Boo has an intense interest in animals. By far Max's favorite game is "What Animal Am I?" We usually play in the car using audio clues, but one evening we spontaneously added a visual component. It started when Max walked through the den on all fours, roaring, and I asked if he was being a bear. I don't think he expected me to respond in kind.
I stretched my neck as far as it would reach and began munching on imaginary leaves.
"You're a giraffe!"
"Yes!"
Max stood on one leg, bending the other one at the knee.
"Are you a flamingo?"
"Yes!"
I sat up straight, turned my head from side to side, blinked my eyes and tried to look wise. "Whoot. Whoot."
"You're an owl!"
"Right!"
Max began to slither across the rug.
"Are you a snake?"
"No! I'm an animal that has no arms and no legs."
"Are you a worm?"
"YES!"
"Good one!"
I crouched on all fours, shifted my weight to my hands and kicked one leg into the air. "Hee-haw," I brayed.
"You're a donkey with a broken leg!"
"A donkey with a broken leg?! How could you tell that?"
"Because one of your legs goes up and the other one sticks out the other way!"
Over the weekend, Max was making an inventory of people and their pets: "We have two pets. Harley and Cassie are dogs. Grandma Nancy was one pet. Sam is a cat. Babee doesn't have any pets. Zero pets. Mommy, Babee needs a pet. We need to get her a fish!" Lucky for Babee, Mother's Day is just around the corner.
Saturday, April 16, 2005
Animal, Grass, Tree?
Because Lee is in so much pain when he tries to drive, I dropped him off early Thursday morning for the MRI that will tell us the extent of damage in his herniated disk. While he was lying in agony in the MRI tube, I was running errands with the kids. We were contrained by the fact that (1) I had both boys in tow, (2) it was 7:15 in the morning, and (3) we needed to stay close to the hospital so that we could get back quickly when Lee was dismissed. Since tax day was looming, I decided to brave the post office to get our tax return on its way. While I was doing my best to keep Max in line, he spotted some US Postal Service postcards on the wall. I asked him if he could read one of them in particular. Imagine my astonishment when Max said, "It's 'happy birthday'!" Then he chirped, "I want to buy that sticker and put it on our letter." Wouldn't that have been a nice surprise for the IRS, getting a happy birthday message with our tax return? Perhaps "happy anniversary" would have been more appropriate. But where the IRS is concerned, I'm reluctant to do anything that might make our return more noticeable that anyone else's.
Thinking that surely Lee couldn't be much longer, we headed back to the hospital. Max was getting bored waiting in the car and begged to do something. So I decided to try to teach him "Rock, Scissors, Paper," although I had doubts about whether he'd catch on. Silly me. It took him about a nanosecond to get the hang of it. But he didn't want to commit to a symbol until I revealed which one I'd chosen. Then, after a pause, he'd pick the object that beat me. Initially I thought he may have been picking the winner at random. But with very few exceptions, he kept winning and winning and winning. And then I understood that he really did understand.
After a dozen or more times, Max must have grown bored, because the next go-round, when I picked Rock, he chose Tree. I explained that there was no such thing as Tree in this game and that he had to pick Rock, Scissors or Paper. He replied, "Well, I can draw a tree on paper with my crayon!" Then he began to choose other objects at random. I picked Scissors, he picked Car. I picked Rock, he picked Volcano. Then he said, "Let's play "Animal, Grass, Tree!" For all I know, he may have even worked out the rules.
Thinking that surely Lee couldn't be much longer, we headed back to the hospital. Max was getting bored waiting in the car and begged to do something. So I decided to try to teach him "Rock, Scissors, Paper," although I had doubts about whether he'd catch on. Silly me. It took him about a nanosecond to get the hang of it. But he didn't want to commit to a symbol until I revealed which one I'd chosen. Then, after a pause, he'd pick the object that beat me. Initially I thought he may have been picking the winner at random. But with very few exceptions, he kept winning and winning and winning. And then I understood that he really did understand.
After a dozen or more times, Max must have grown bored, because the next go-round, when I picked Rock, he chose Tree. I explained that there was no such thing as Tree in this game and that he had to pick Rock, Scissors or Paper. He replied, "Well, I can draw a tree on paper with my crayon!" Then he began to choose other objects at random. I picked Scissors, he picked Car. I picked Rock, he picked Volcano. Then he said, "Let's play "Animal, Grass, Tree!" For all I know, he may have even worked out the rules.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
When is a good offense a very, very bad defense?
When it comes from a 3-year old.
Over the years, I've noticed a tendency among some members of the opposite sex to lash out when the women in their lives offer them an opportunity for self-improvement in the form of constructive feedback. If you're hoping for a few sordid stories, you'll be disappointed. The details are unimportant. The point is that I'm awed by the ability of some people to launch an attack at precisely the moment when I'd be back on my heels overanalyzing what I'd done wrong and stammering out some form of an apology. But then again, I'm such a girl.
Last night, when Max was an hour past tired, he began to work himself into a frenzy. These are the circumstances under which the living beings in our house are most likely to get hurt. Max had already hit me once, and I had admonished him to control himself or else.
I was trying to wrestle a new diaper and PJs onto Max's writhing body, when he suddenly threw the discarded diaper, slapping me in my face. It hurt, and I was livid. Spitting with anger, I told Max in no uncertain terms that his behavior was completely unacceptable.
With defiant non-chalance, he replied, "Well, you were supposed to duck."
Over the years, I've noticed a tendency among some members of the opposite sex to lash out when the women in their lives offer them an opportunity for self-improvement in the form of constructive feedback. If you're hoping for a few sordid stories, you'll be disappointed. The details are unimportant. The point is that I'm awed by the ability of some people to launch an attack at precisely the moment when I'd be back on my heels overanalyzing what I'd done wrong and stammering out some form of an apology. But then again, I'm such a girl.
Last night, when Max was an hour past tired, he began to work himself into a frenzy. These are the circumstances under which the living beings in our house are most likely to get hurt. Max had already hit me once, and I had admonished him to control himself or else.
I was trying to wrestle a new diaper and PJs onto Max's writhing body, when he suddenly threw the discarded diaper, slapping me in my face. It hurt, and I was livid. Spitting with anger, I told Max in no uncertain terms that his behavior was completely unacceptable.
With defiant non-chalance, he replied, "Well, you were supposed to duck."
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
The Darndest Things
Last year, Max was particularly fond of his classmate, Raegan. By the age of 2, Raegan had charisma, and boys and girls alike were drawn to her magnetism. At one of the kids' birthday parties, I mentioned to Raegan's mother my prediction that in 20-something years, our eldest children would marry. Imagine my surprise when Liam's mother announced that her son, too, had his sights on the enchanting Miss Raegan. You see, Liam was Max's best buddy at school. Little did I know that Liam, Max and Rae, best of friends in the classroom and on the playground, were secretly embroiled in a pre-school love triangle.
This morning I announced to Max that after his gymnastics class, we were going to meet Raegan at the zoo. Max was thrilled at the news and disappeared into the backyard. A minute later he returned, holding two white flowers. Extending one to me, Max said, "I picked this flower for you, mommy, but not this one. I'm going to take this flower to Rae Rae."
(Let's dispense for the moment with the obvious juxtaposition of the two females on Max's emotional radar screen. Given that I'm still changing his diapers, I'm not prepared to wander too far into the psychologically complicated triad between Max, his mother, and his future girlfriends/wife. I will say in passing, though, that I have an admirable role model in the person of Lee's mother, Nancy. In the great mother-in-law lottery, I definitely won the jackpot.)
Two hours later, after Max and I had enjoyed our picnic by the duckpond, we met up with Raegan and her mother near the sea lions. That's when it dawned on Max that he'd left Raegan's flower in the car. But to Max, every dilemma is an opportunity for problem-solving, and he was determined to bestow Raegan with his hand-picked treasure. He thought for a moment and then pointed a finger at me: "Rae Rae's mommy can watch me, and you can go get the flower out of the car!"
*****
"Mommy, Babee, I want to show you something!"
I had been telling mom about Lee's visit to the acupuncturist when Max strode into the kitchen wearing nothing but his T-shirt. This is the fashion statement that I've mentioned earlier, the one that signals another successful foray to the bathroom.
"Max, what did you do? Did you use the potty?"
"Quick! Come see!"
Max led us into his bedroom and proudly displayed the contents of his potty to his grandmother and me.
"I'm so proud of you, Max!"
"I'm proud, too, Babee."
"Let's put the poo poo in the toilet!"
"I want to flush it!"
"You do?"
"Yes, because I made it all by myself!"
"You certainly did, Max."
"Bye-bye, poo. See you tomorrow!"
*****
Lee was watching a tennis match between Roger Federer and Greg Rusedski this evening when Max wandered into the den.
"Max, take a look at this. That man right there is the greatest tennis player in the world right now. He's the very best there is."
"No, daddy. You're the best."
This morning I announced to Max that after his gymnastics class, we were going to meet Raegan at the zoo. Max was thrilled at the news and disappeared into the backyard. A minute later he returned, holding two white flowers. Extending one to me, Max said, "I picked this flower for you, mommy, but not this one. I'm going to take this flower to Rae Rae."
(Let's dispense for the moment with the obvious juxtaposition of the two females on Max's emotional radar screen. Given that I'm still changing his diapers, I'm not prepared to wander too far into the psychologically complicated triad between Max, his mother, and his future girlfriends/wife. I will say in passing, though, that I have an admirable role model in the person of Lee's mother, Nancy. In the great mother-in-law lottery, I definitely won the jackpot.)
Two hours later, after Max and I had enjoyed our picnic by the duckpond, we met up with Raegan and her mother near the sea lions. That's when it dawned on Max that he'd left Raegan's flower in the car. But to Max, every dilemma is an opportunity for problem-solving, and he was determined to bestow Raegan with his hand-picked treasure. He thought for a moment and then pointed a finger at me: "Rae Rae's mommy can watch me, and you can go get the flower out of the car!"
*****
"Mommy, Babee, I want to show you something!"
I had been telling mom about Lee's visit to the acupuncturist when Max strode into the kitchen wearing nothing but his T-shirt. This is the fashion statement that I've mentioned earlier, the one that signals another successful foray to the bathroom.
"Max, what did you do? Did you use the potty?"
"Quick! Come see!"
Max led us into his bedroom and proudly displayed the contents of his potty to his grandmother and me.
"I'm so proud of you, Max!"
"I'm proud, too, Babee."
"Let's put the poo poo in the toilet!"
"I want to flush it!"
"You do?"
"Yes, because I made it all by myself!"
"You certainly did, Max."
"Bye-bye, poo. See you tomorrow!"
*****
Lee was watching a tennis match between Roger Federer and Greg Rusedski this evening when Max wandered into the den.
"Max, take a look at this. That man right there is the greatest tennis player in the world right now. He's the very best there is."
"No, daddy. You're the best."
Saturday, April 09, 2005
Just call me Ms. Generosity...
I had a couple of difficult days with Max this week, notable particularly for his lengthy periods of out-of-control screaming. I'm not quite sure what triggers these episodes--hunger? fatigue?--but I sure would like to get a handle on them, because they both disturb and exhaust me. Fortunately, today was not one of those days. In fact, we had a glorious day, perhaps because we did essentially everything that Max wanted to do. (Come to think of it, if everything in my life went exactly as I willed or wished, I'd be a lot more delightful, too.)
After we arrived home from the Museum of Matural Science, as he calls it, he pulled a layer of chocolate cake out of the freezer and asked to make a giraffe cake. I don't usually acquiesce to his increasingly-frequent requests for sugar, but I was feeling flexible, so we mixed yellow and brown icing and had the culinary version of a painting party. In materials I've been reading about art projects for pre-schoolers, authors often emphasize the importance of process over outcome. I don't know how much the finished product actually looked like a giraffe, but I'm certain that Max had a ball making it, which makes it a huge success in my view.
I cut two slices of the cake, one for Max and one for me. In the meantime, Reed lay down on the rug and began to moan, which is his way of pleading for a nap. So I took time out from my cake to put Reed down, then returned to the kitchen to finish dessert. On the island were two clean plates. Max was licking his fork.
"What happened to my cake, Max?"
He pointed to himself.
"You finished my piece of cake, Max?"
"Yes. You shared it with me. Thank you for sharing, mommy." He leaned over and gave me a big hug. "I love you, mommy. You're so nice."
After we arrived home from the Museum of Matural Science, as he calls it, he pulled a layer of chocolate cake out of the freezer and asked to make a giraffe cake. I don't usually acquiesce to his increasingly-frequent requests for sugar, but I was feeling flexible, so we mixed yellow and brown icing and had the culinary version of a painting party. In materials I've been reading about art projects for pre-schoolers, authors often emphasize the importance of process over outcome. I don't know how much the finished product actually looked like a giraffe, but I'm certain that Max had a ball making it, which makes it a huge success in my view.
I cut two slices of the cake, one for Max and one for me. In the meantime, Reed lay down on the rug and began to moan, which is his way of pleading for a nap. So I took time out from my cake to put Reed down, then returned to the kitchen to finish dessert. On the island were two clean plates. Max was licking his fork.
"What happened to my cake, Max?"
He pointed to himself.
"You finished my piece of cake, Max?"
"Yes. You shared it with me. Thank you for sharing, mommy." He leaned over and gave me a big hug. "I love you, mommy. You're so nice."
Sunday, April 03, 2005
Clever is not enough
One of the things I most enjoyed about my job at the bank was the opportunity to interact with members of the bank's board. It was an esteemed group, including President Gerald Ford, the legendary Herb Kelleher of Southwest Airlines, former Secretary of Energy Robert Mosbacher, and former Secretary of Energy and Coca-Cola President Charles Duncan.
Another board member was Kirbyjon Caldwell, the charismatic minister who has grown Windsor Village Methodist Church into the largest Methodist church in the country. He's an amazing orator, and I had the pleasure of listening to him on a number of occasions. Around the time of the Clinton/Lewinsky drama, he spoke to a group of emerging leaders in the organization. When competent people aspire to the highest echelons of corporate or political life, he said, what constrains them is almost always a matter of character, not of intellect.
I've been considering the wisdom of Kirbyjon's words as I've watched Max's personality unfold. A couple of weeks ago, Lee and I were watching the end of a Duke basketball game. Max and Reed had been playing happily together in the kitchen when Max unexpectedly poked his head into the den and waved. "Hi, guys! Enjoy the game!," he shouted exuberantly. We laughed at his apparent charm.
A couple of minutes later, Max started through the den, trying his level best to conceal something. I asked what was in the bag in his hand. "Chocolate chip cookies." He'd manuevered a bar stool over to the counter to retrieve the cookies from a high shelf, and his greeting was intended to provide him some cover.
A few days later, Max approached Lee for some horseplay:
"Daddy, will you give me a ride on your shoulders?"
"Sure, Max."
"Would you carry me into the kitchen?"
"Okay."
"Would you go through that door (to the utility room)?"
"All right."
"Would you open that door (to the pantry)?"
"Sure."
"Would you move up a little bit?"
"Why, Max?"
"Because I want the M & M's."
Max's ingenuity is considerable, to be sure. But I have a growing sense of urgency that our challenge will be to help him develop a character to match his cleverness.
Another board member was Kirbyjon Caldwell, the charismatic minister who has grown Windsor Village Methodist Church into the largest Methodist church in the country. He's an amazing orator, and I had the pleasure of listening to him on a number of occasions. Around the time of the Clinton/Lewinsky drama, he spoke to a group of emerging leaders in the organization. When competent people aspire to the highest echelons of corporate or political life, he said, what constrains them is almost always a matter of character, not of intellect.
I've been considering the wisdom of Kirbyjon's words as I've watched Max's personality unfold. A couple of weeks ago, Lee and I were watching the end of a Duke basketball game. Max and Reed had been playing happily together in the kitchen when Max unexpectedly poked his head into the den and waved. "Hi, guys! Enjoy the game!," he shouted exuberantly. We laughed at his apparent charm.
A couple of minutes later, Max started through the den, trying his level best to conceal something. I asked what was in the bag in his hand. "Chocolate chip cookies." He'd manuevered a bar stool over to the counter to retrieve the cookies from a high shelf, and his greeting was intended to provide him some cover.
A few days later, Max approached Lee for some horseplay:
"Daddy, will you give me a ride on your shoulders?"
"Sure, Max."
"Would you carry me into the kitchen?"
"Okay."
"Would you go through that door (to the utility room)?"
"All right."
"Would you open that door (to the pantry)?"
"Sure."
"Would you move up a little bit?"
"Why, Max?"
"Because I want the M & M's."
Max's ingenuity is considerable, to be sure. But I have a growing sense of urgency that our challenge will be to help him develop a character to match his cleverness.
