The Meaning of the Word 'Need'

Dear Milo,
You did something today that so poignantly summed up what's it like to be the parent of a 2-year-old that I almost wanted to run to the computer and write it down that second. For a few weeks now I've been trying to get you to hop down from your chair at the dining room table by yourself. You're tall enough and agile enough to do it, and yet you like to have someone's hand there just in case, mostly for moral support.

"You can do it," I'd been telling you . "You don't need me. You don't need my help."

"I need you," you insisted.

This morning I cleared the breakfast dishes and left you sitting at the table while I puttered around in the kitchen for a moment. Suddenly I heard you come racing down the hall toward the kitchen yelling "MAMA! MAMA! MAMA!" as though your horse had just won the Kentucky Derby.

"What?" I yelled back.

"I did it!" you yelled. "I got down by myself!"

I scooped you up and gave you a big hug.

"That's great!" I said. "I'm so proud of you."

"I did it myself," you said. "I don't need you."

This has not been your best month. You have been difficult about nearly everything, starting with the 100 Years Nap War, continuing through the You Will Use A Spoon Not Your Hands Skirmish, and up on through the I Am Not Carrying You Home From Starbucks, You Said You Wanted To Walk debacle. But then sometimes you come out with something so lovely and perfect that it makes up for it.

You've become a real little person in these last few months -- you go down the slide by yourself, climb up the chain link net at the playground, and manage to figure out exactly how to appease your parents while simultaneously expressing your displeasure at the situation.

Case in point:
A few days ago we went to the playground. As we were leaving the house I said to you, "What toy do you want to bring to the sandbox?"

"Anything," you said. (You still haven't learned the difference between 'nothing' and 'anything.') "I want to play with the other kids' toys."

"You have to bring something to share," I said. "Even if you don't want to play with it. Let's bring your pail and shovel."

"I don't want to bring my pail and shovel," you said.

"You don't have to play with it, you just have to share it," I said, sticking the disputed pail and shovel into the back of the stroller.

When we got to the playground I handed you the pail and shovel, you gave me a look of pure disgust, as though I'd handed you a rotten chicken, marched into the sandbox and shoved it into the hands of the first kid you saw. This kid happened to be younger than you, probably 1 and a half or so, and was so surprised that he immediately took the pail and started playing with it.

"That was so nice!" his father said, and for the rest of our time in the sandbox the father kept shooting admiring glances at Milo The Amazing Boy Who Shares. When his kid was done playing the father took the pail and shovel and handed it to me, thanking me profusely, thanking you profusely, and clearly misunderstanding the entire scenario. To your benefit. Maybe you're an evil genius in the making.

Either way I'm proud of you.

Love,
Mama

Love,
Mama

Everyone at The Tot Lot is a Communist

Yesterday at the Tot Lot Milo became fixated on another little boy's push toy, which Milo insisted on refering to as "popping thing" because it looked a little like a popping lawnmower toy he'd been playing with last week at his grandfather's house. Milo was contentedly bogarting the toy; he'd pulled it over to a far corner of the Tot Lot, away from the grabby hands of the other kids, and glared at anyone who came near.

Eventually a bold, much younger little girl toddled over and started laying her paws all over the toy. And for the first time in his life Milo looked at her and yelled "No!" He tried to move the toy away from her, but she followed him.

"Milo," I said, against my will and ever fiber of my being. "It's not your toy, so you have to share."

About half an hour later Milo was playing with a little toy car near the slide. Another little girl crawled over to him, eying the car. Milo looked at me and started to cy.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

Whimpering, Milo said, "Share."

"You don't have to share the car," I said. "You just started playing with it. You just had to share the push toy because you'd been playing with it for a long time."

I sighed. I could barely make sense of the sharing rules, so how could I expect Milo to? I think the rule at the Tot Lot should be NO SHARING ALLOWED. Kids should be able to bring their toys and smack anyone who comes within a two foot radius. After all, you don't have to share in real life. It's not like I might be standing in line for a bagel when a perfect stranger approaches me and says it's now his turn to use my iPod. Imagine a world where this happened. Where there was no private property, and if you saw someone walking down the street wearing a sweater you liked you could just yell "My turn!" and grab the sweater. It would be chaos! Anarchy! Or Stalinist Russia. Take your pick.