Train Table Politics

At a year and a half old, Little Man doesn't really play with other kids. He does, as the professionals call it, paralell play--doing his own thing alongside other children.

But because of his size (he sees eye to eye with most three year olds and towers over the average two year old), older children often try and play with him and get frustrated when he doesn't reciprocate. Little Man gets easily overwhelmed by his older counterparts, so he often hangs back for a bit before diving into the fun.

Such was the case this weekend, when we spent the morning at the big bookstore with a train table in the kid's section. It's one of our favorite rainy day haunts, and today there were two other boys, both between 2.5 and 3, playing as well.

When Little Man joined in, one of the other boys just orbited around him, zooming his train as he pleased and when Little Man was in his way, he stepped around him and carried on. "He has a little sister at home," his father told me.

The other little boy wasn't so thrilled with Little Man's addition to the play group. "My choo choos!" He immediately started to yell. "My choo-choos!"

Little Man doesn't really fight back when another kid steals his toys in a public place like this (especially when the other kid is screeching). He seems content to hand the object over and find something else. I don't know if this is his age, or is he is just really mellow.

I was particularly thankful that the parents who belonged to the grabber jumped right in--there's nothing worse than having to parent other people's kids...and I tend to do it without thinking due to my nanny background.

I was also glad that they seemed to be on the same wavelength that Husband and I are. They gave their son a few chances to share, but when the grabbing and the tantrum got out of control, they left. I could tell they were embarrased, and did my best to assure them that my feelings weren't hurt (and neither were my kid's, either) but that I appreciated what they were doing and I didn't think their son was a monster, even though he was acting like one at the moment.

Because every kid has--or will have--a temper tantrum in public, an issue sharing, or a meltdown. I'm not niave enough to think it won't happen to us--Little Man has already had some doozie meltdowns at home and I'll do practically anything to avoid one in public. I'm the mom who leaves her shopping cart full of groceries and exits the store with an unhappy child.

Fights at the train table over who gets the green train are how little guys learn to be big guys. All the other parents and I can do is act as advisors and guide them to the right behavior and dole out consequences when the wrong behavior erupts. And they'll eventually get it. How do I know?

The little boy with the sibling watched this whole thing go down from his corner of the table. When the screaming died down, he looked at my younger child and said, "he has to go to time out. He didn't share."

"Uh oh," agreed my son, and nodded at him. And then they went back to their respective choo-choos, next to each other.

Run in Circles and Carry a Big Stick--Part 2

When I was pregnant, I was fascinated by a particular phenomenon: little boys picking up sticks and whacking random things with it.

Girls, I argued, don't do that. I didn't see any rhyme or reason to picking up a stick and poking the ground. Why would a boy find that interesting?

Well, now I know.

As soon as Little Man was up on his feet outside, he had the uncanny ability to find a stick. With it, he was able to reach things previously out of his grasp. He could poke the car window or the leaves on a small-ish tree. Once he found his balance, he could use it to make a cool whooshing noise. And a stick can be used to test the squishiness of any surface. What's the difference in density between that patch of mud and the regular dirt? Poke it with a stick! The difference in scraping noises on concrete and brick path? Use a stick! The difference in softness between the pole on the swingset and Mommy's leg? Give it a good jab with a--uh oh.

There is a look of primitive happiness that comes over Little Man's face when he finds a stick that is just the right size and length. And when he finds that perfect one, he hangs on to it. The back of my car is littered with sticks he kept a firm grasp on throughout a playground trip.

Soon, those sticks with be makeshift swords and lightsabers. For now, they are exploratory tools, helping Little Man discover the world around him.

And yes--sometimes, just to carry around.

18 Months and Thriving

It's been a busy week of doctor appointments--we've seen the eye doctor, the pediatrician, and the orthopedist. To sum it all up, I'll use what our pediatrician said as she watched our son run circles around the exam room:

"He's just awesome, you guys."

I have to say I agree with her. As usual, he's in the highest percentile for weight and height, standing around 33 inches and weighing over 33 pounds (no wonder my arms ache at the end of each day!). He's meeting all his milestones, and blowing most of them out of the water. His vision is perfect, and his injured leg has been officially cleared by a pediatric orthopedist. To celebrate being done with a week of appointments and having full use of his limbs again, I took Little Man to the playground for the first time since early December and let him loose.

As I watched him climb up the tallest equipment with a gleeful expression on his face ("I'm free! I'm finally free!") I realized my baby boy is no longer a baby--he's a full-fledged toddler with very little fear and a whole lot of spunk. And then I was jolted out of my reverie by said Toddler, who was preparing to launch himself down the slide meant for elementary school kids.

"Wait for Mommy!" I yelled as I dodged other kids, trying to get to him before he flew down the slide to what I was sure would be another broken leg.

To his credit, he waited for me. But when I got there, he swatted my hand away.

"Mama," he said. "Mama, me!" And so I let him slide, catching a bundle of giggles at the bottom in my arms. He tolerated my hugs for a moment, then began ascending to the top again: "Up! Up-pah!"

I let him play until he was worn out, then watched him march back to the car where he let me buckle him into his car seat and give him his sippie cup.

At home I watch him zoom his trains around the track of his beloved train table, watch him race his match box cars around the floor, watch him have quiet time with his books in the corner of his bedroom. I watch him go through his routines, know he understands me when I talk to him and give him directions, and watch him figure out problems and things that puzzle him without my help.

At one and a half years old, Little Man isn't just good. He's thriving.