Words

It was errand time, and Michael and I were finishing out our trip at the grocery store. He’d been his usual animated self throughout our visit, chirping about this and that and asking a million questions. Finally at the checkout, I set the cart against the end of the counter like I always do, so the checker can put the bags in the cart and so Michael can’t reach the coin return, spray bottle or turntable switch that are unfortunately located right around there in the checkout counter.

As my last few items are being rung up, suddenly I hear Michael start to whimper softly: “It’s for me!”

I turned slightly to see what the matter was. He’s staring at the back wall, behind me. He repeated the phrase again, twice, each time with more urgency but just as softly: “It’s for me! It’s for meeeeeeee!”

His expression then contorted into one of utter despair, and he buried his face in his hands and wept.

“What?” I asked. “What’s for you? What is the matter?”

I tried to get him to talk to me. I looked back to see whatever it was that had his attention, and beheld nothing unusual: the back wall, a couple of store clerks, some books, a few empty carts. Nothing of any interest.

Michael continued to bawl.

“What is it? Michael, please use your words! Tell me what’s wrong!”

He would not respond to me at all.

Then, from behind, I hear the phrase. “…boy must have dropped it,” and turned around just in time to see one of those clerks hand Michael his small pink rubber ball, one that he had brought with him from home.

He clutched the ball tightly with both hands, and wiped his eyes with his sleeves.

“Why didn’t you tell me you dropped it? I would have gotten it for you,” I told him.

He remained wordless, sniffing back a few residual tears.

On the way out to the car, we talked about what happened, and how it could have been better.

“Michael, I didn’t know you dropped the ball. Do you understand? I was looking in a different direction, and didn’t see the ball drop. And the people that work at the store, they didn’t know the ball was yours at first. That’s why I asked you to use words, so you could explain what happened. Daddy can help if you explain what happened.”

What made sense to me was Michael’s point of view. I recall having this same sort of ego-centric viewpoint of the world when I was his age; the belief that everyone sees, hears and knows everything that I see, hear and know. His experience is the only real experience, and everyone shares it.

So it follows that if he dropped the ball, everyone should know that he did, and know that it’s his. He probably thought I was being mean by not caring that he dropped his ball, and that the store clerks were being mean for wanting to keep it because they picked it up and didn’t bring it back right away.

It’s just the stage he’s at right now, one that will be passed through on his way to the next stage, which will bring its own challenges. As he grows, learns and experiences, his model of the world expands and changes, and his behavior will adjust to accommodate it.

My job as a parent is to do my best to recognize those stages and to be right beside him to guide him on his way to the next one.

We practiced what he would do the next time something like that happens: he’ll use his words, he’ll tell me what happened. And, he says, it would be a better idea to just leave the ball at home so he doesn’t lose it.

I think he’ll be okay.