Clean the Room is one of those things that he could do by
himself, and would do willingly, if only there weren’t so many decisions and
distractions involved. I mean, it’s hard
to know what to pick up first and even harder not to play with it once you’ve
decided what should be first and you actually have it in your hands.
And why struggle against such obstacles when, with just a
little lagging and a little mumbling, Mother will come solve all those problems
and add a little mutual interaction.
It’s the interaction that’s the clincher. When I was young, several people kept telling
me, very profoundly, that “a child would rather be beaten than ignored.” And while I’ve never done so far as to
actually test that hypothesis, I can tell you from experience that small boys
glow like soft pink lightbulbs whenever they can successfully drag attention
out of Mother that Mother hadn’t planned to give. It’s a bonus – a little power surge with a
dose of half-concealed elation thrown in.
Clean the Room is almost a tradition, now. Periodically, I get tired of saying “I told
you an hour ago to clean this room. That
doesn’t mean play, that means clean.”
Only to hear, “I did clean it,” without any difference apparent in the
room. I kick, shove, or throw every
offending article in the room into a pile and sit on the edge of the bed. While Firstborn fitfully sorts through it all, I
sound an occasional “pick up”, “keep going”, “clean – don’t play”, or “more it”
in varying degrees of gruffness.
With these words to prod him along, Firstborn sorts what goes in
his toy box from what goes in his bookshelf from what goes in the dirty clothes
from what goes in the trash. He is now
about three quarters of the way done and starting to ask questions in hopes of
starting a conversation so he can stop, or at least slow down for awhile.
I meet all of his opening gambits with curt answers and the
words “keep cleaning.”
Then he asks, “Where are we going tomorrow?”
I growl, “To the library – keep cleaning.”
Firstborn perks up.
Smiling all over his face, he asks, “Are you going to get a book that
tells how to turn blue?”
That did it. I’m
laughing now. He knows he has me. The conversation has started. Darn his grinning little hide.
I thought he had forgotten that turning blue nonsense. I certainly had.
You see, yesterday while I was playing with him, I told him
that I could turn blue. He told me I
couldn’t, but his voice and eyes had been unsure. You never could tell with parents. Maybe I could.
I said that, yes, I could, and asked if he’d like to see me
do it. While he sat, round eyed, I sat really still, to set the stage. I took a deep breath. Then I squeezed down hard on it, contorting
my face and squeezing my eyes shut. I
held it as long as I could. Then I let
out the breath in a loud rush and said, “There!”
By then he knew it was a game and twinkling, he told me that
I hadn’t turned blue. I expressed
disbelief. Was he sure? Yes, he was sure.
I checked in the mirror.
Sure enough. No blue. Maybe I’d better try again? Giggles.
I tried twice more, harder each time, and having failed both
times, I conceded that I must have forgotten how. I said I’d have to read up on it. Then we’d gone on with whatever we had been doing
and it hadn’t been mentioned since.
Well. He remembered
it. And now we’re laughing about it all
over again. He’s still young enough that
it amazes me when he makes a smooth connection to something he’s
remembered. Especially when he makes a
connection that I haven’t made.
So I’m laughing and proud at the same time. I remember that I love this kid. The conversation he has started bounces back
and forth between us as he smiles, pleased the he was able to sneak it in past
me.
The pile fades slowly until it’s gone. It would have faded faster if a conversation
hadn’t been added to slow it, but what the heck. He needs the attention. I’m the one who needed a clean room.
- - -
Now he’s asleep and I’m remembering again that I love this
kid. And remembering that I gave him a
little piece of nonsense that he had thought was precious enough to save. And remembering that he won’t be four much
longer.
Next time I start Clean the Room Time, I think I’ll bring us
both
a glass of ginger ale.
No comments:
Post a Comment