|
|
 |
|
The
views expressed
on this page are soley those of the author and do not
necessarily
represent the views of County News Online
|
 |
Broke Wife, Big City
Spongebrain
NoPants (or How to Make Your Kid Wicked Smart)
By Aprill Brandon
I’d always heard the phrase “a child’s brain is like a sponge, soaking
up everything.” But it wasn’t until I had a kid of my own that I began
to truly understand just what that meant.
Their brains are, indeed, little sponges. Little, tiny, thirsty sponges
that soak up any and all knowledge. In particular, any knowledge that
may be left in the dwindling juices of their parents’ sleep-deprived
brains.
It’s all very sudden. One day they’re just lying there like adorable
lumps of leaky clay, completely uninterested in Mr. Cloppity McHoover
that you keep jangling in front of their face. They downright ignore
your Oscar-worthy reenactment of “On The Night You Were Born” (complete
with your dead-on impression of a tap-dancing polar bear). And as for
peek-a-boo? Forget it. They couldn’t care less that you freaking
DISAPPEARED for three seconds and then came back using nothing other
than the power of your hands (which, let’s be honest, is a little
hurtful).
And then BOOM. Suddenly they wake up and want to know EVERYTHING. What
does Mr. Cloppity McHoover taste like? Let’s bite his face and find
out. What is the symbolism and literary merit of dancing polar bears?
Let’s gnaw on this book spine and find out. Where does Momma go during
peek-a-boo? Let’s bite her finger and make her yell because it’s the
funniest thing in the world.
Before you know it, they move onto the big questions. What’s that? And
then there’s what’s that? And, of course, perhaps the biggest question
of all, what’s that?
Yes, my son, who at 16-months still can’t (or more likely won’t) call
me Momma (and instead refers to me as “Eh”), can say “what’s that?” so
clearly and distinctly that it would make even poor Professor Higgins*
weep with joy. I mean, granted, he’s had plenty of practice considering
he’s asked me this question no less than 683 times a day, every day,
for the past two months. But still, being that I’m his Eh, it makes me
proud.
And exhausted.
Oh, so exhausted.
Don’t get me wrong. I love that my son wants to know all the things.
But when I say “all the things,” I really mean All. The. Things.
He doesn’t just want to know what a tree is. Or even what a leaf on
that tree is. No, he wants to know what is every single leaf on every
single branch of that tree is.
And even that would be hypothetically doable, this game of naming
everything in the known universe, if it weren’t for one teeny tiny
detail:
He never, ever remembers a thing.
Yes, toddlers have horrible, horrible memories. Oh sure, he remembers
the important things. He never forgets that 5 a.m. is TIME TO WAKE UP.
Even if he stayed up until 4 a.m. the night before. Doesn’t matter.
Cause 5 a.m. is TIME TO WAKE UP. No exceptions.
He also remembers that he’s not supposed to pull Mommy’s books out from
the bookshelf. This, of course, doesn’t mean he doesn’t do it. He does.
All the time. He just knows he’s not supposed to be doing it while he’s
doing it, which is why he runs drunkenly on his tiny legs every time he
snatches my copy of “The Hobbit” and hides oh-so-cleverly behind his
playpen, which is made from 100 percent see-through mesh.
And he also remembers with startling clarity who Elmo is, which is why
if you dare to even whisper the “E” word in our house, he will run
drunkenly and directly to the TV and point and cry until that little
high-pitched red demon is on the screen.
But as for anything else, WOOP! In one ear and out the other.
And that is why I just spent the last hour with him looking through all
the pages of his “Good Night, Good Night, Construction Site” book. Not
reading it, mind you. But slowly turning the pages and stopping every
time we came to a page that had the moon on it so he could point to
said moon and ask “what’s that?” while I answer “the moon…again.”
I’m sure, developmentally speaking, this is a very good sign. Of
something. I have no idea what. My college childhood development
classes** were many years and many, many beers ago.
So, I’m not complaining.***
Because in the end, curiosity in children should always be nurtured. No
matter how brain dead it makes you.
*Old white dude from “My Fair Lady” who has a fetish for Spanish
weather.
**Oh yeah, in addition to my journalism degree, I have a teaching
degree. So, sleep tight tonight knowing that someday I could be the one
in charge of your child’s brain…Muah-hahaha!
***Ha! Kidding. This whole piece is pretty much one long
complaint.
Can’t get enough of Aprill? Can’t wait until next week?
Check out her website at http://aprillbrandon.com/
|
|
|
|
