The Art of Logic

The ability to use logic and reason is what’s said to separate humans from animals.  And, I believe, the ability to logically reason is what separates adult humans from tiny humans.  At least, that’s what I’m starting to see.  Anna’s ability to reason and generally figure things out is growing.  She’s asked “why?” enough times that she should have all the answers.  A growing brain, a developing ability to reason, and answers to all the “whys” should have her ready to go, right?  Not so fast, Guapo. 

Logic and reason are not quite as scientific as you might think.  They're proving to be a true art form.  And, like any fine art, they take practice and experience before the skill is truly mastered.

Traci, the kids and I struck out on Sunday evening to run a quick errand between dinner and baths for the kiddos.  As I backed the minivan out of the garage, the low fuel warning light came on.  I opted to ignore it, not wanting to take the time for a stop at the gas station.  I wanted to run my errand, which truly was a short trip, and get home quickly so that baths and bedtime could happen.  Besides that, I had driven the minivan all weekend (even the 60 mile roundtrip to the zoo earlier that day) and hadn’t seen the low fuel light.  So, we should’ve been in the clear to drive the 3 miles over to Arlington Heights. 

We were, in fact, in the clear to drive the 3 miles over.  It was the coming back part where we ran into trouble.  We had turned onto the main road leading into our neighborhood.  Anna had likely just asked, “Did we turn right or did we turn left, Dad?”  (We talk about left and right a lot when we drive.  She knows her left hand is by the window.  This seems to directionally anchor her.  That one time that she sat on the other side of the car was really confusing.)  And then, the minivan started to sputter.  I felt it lose power, and decelerate on its own.  I pulled to the curb and told Traci that we had just run out of gas.  She thought I was joking.  Admittedly, I like a decent prank.  But, this wasn’t one of them.  Apparently Traci had noticed the fuel warning light on Friday and forgot to do anything about it. 

After we had the laughter under control (who runs out of gas less than half a mile from home?  For that matter, who runs out of gas period?), we all piled out of the van.  Anna asked, “Are we leaving the minivan here?  Where are we going?”  We loaded the girls in stroller & Owen in the Baby Bjorn (both still in the back from the zoo) and headed for home.   We passed neighbors who had likely seen us leave 15 minutes earlier in the minivan but we refused to make eye contact.  It was our own version of the walk of shame.

By now, gentle reader, you’re probably anticipating the climax and wondering how this relates to toddlers and the art of reason.  As it turns out, Anna has no concept of running out of gas.  That is beyond her experience base.  She knew we were leaving the minivan there.  She knew we were done with the errand.  And, once we walked the last half mile, she knew we were home.  Based on her experience and the facts as presented, she very matter-of-factly said, “next time we do an errand, we will walk down the street to get our van.”  Logically, it was just that simple.  The more pressing question on her mind was probably whether the walk back to the minivan would require a left turn or a right turn.  She was likely nervous because the stroller has no window.  

Growin' like weeds

This blog is like a scary movie villain.  Just when you think it’s dead, it gets up again.  There’s no use in trying to write about all the happenings and milestones since our last post.  In short, Traci & I are the proud parents of 3 growing, beautiful kiddos – Anna, Ellen, & Owen.  Everyday these three tiny humans amaze me.  Though, they’re not really as tiny as they used to be.

Anna is going on 4 but, clearly thinks she’s going on 14.  Last weekend, we were out buying a few new outfits for fall.  We picked out several matchy-matchy outfits for our little girl at Carter’s.  They were all rainbows, hearts & ponies, of course, in standard Carter’s pink & purple.  Anna has grown very particular about her clothes (skirts must have the right “twirl factor” to be satisfactory) but seemed content with these new things.  On our way from the store to the car, we passed an Old Navy store where Anna saw a shirt in the window display that caught her eye.  Our almost four year old froze, stared at the shirt on the eyeless mannequin with the plastic pony tail, and said, “I want THAT shirt!  I mean, can I have that shirt please?”  The shirt that had captivated her so was a long t-shirt meant to be worn over leggings with a sequined necktie applique on the front and only came in girls sizes.  As in, the size doesn't have “T” behind the number.  Somehow, the size 5 fit.  And just like that, Anna became 3 going on 14.  A few days later she continued to prove that by referring to Traci as “Mom da bomb.”

Ellen is growing up too.  We’re told that she’s a classic middle child, causing mischief and being obstinate every chance she gets.  She too has developed quite strong opinions about her clothes.  Though, hers seem to be more based in comfort than fashion as she refuses to wear any shoes (including sandals) without socks.  Ellen’s opinions don’t stop at clothes.  She frequently gives others a very disapproving scowl.  Some have said that she has inherited this trait from me.  (I say, just don’t do things that are disapproving to me or Ellen.)  Ellen has also taken over Anna’s chore of corralling Eve the WonderDog into the basement before we leave home.  Most mornings, she stands with the basement door open, yelling, “Eeeee!  Go, Eee!  Go!”  Ellen swats at Eve, as Eve goes by, apparently thinking that the dog requires a bit of a push to make it down the basement stairs.  Another of Ellen’s (self-assigned) duties is to follow behind Anna as she rides her bicycle (with training wheels of course).  When Anna stops and can’t get started again, Ellen runs up behind her and pushes Anna off with all her might. 

And then, there’s Owen.  He’s the tiniest of our three tiny humans.  Though, it’s all relative because he’s really not that tiny either.  I’m pretty sure that he’s been holding his head up on his own since before he was born.  And, at 8 weeks, he’s a robust 13 pounds and 25 inches long.  He has a smile & dimples to steal any heart (he probably could do time for grand larceny, if caught).  We’ve spent eight weeks getting to know him & still don’t know who he looks like.  Anna & Ellen have loved him, tolerated him, disliked him, and loved him some more in that time too.  I suspect most of what he feels towards the two of them is somewhere on the “tolerate” end of the spectrum.  A baby brother can only take so much kissing, touching, poking, being tugged, and being sat on.  Some nights he cries and cries until we just put him down, in his bed, ALONE.  I’m convinced that these cries are the baby equivalent of, “STOP TOUCHING ME!”  

So, as you see, they're all three "growing like weeds."  Every parent of teenagers or adult children will tell you that "time goes so fast and they grow so quickly."  I'm learning that they're right.  Tiny humans don't stay tiny forever.