By Atina DiffleyWe sit together on the carpeted floor playing hand games and making animal sounds. Little Blake watches my mouth and tries to mimic my lip shape as he moos, meows, and barks. The noises coming from his vocal chords couldn't be identified as cow, cat or dog but we're having fun and dipping into the land of pure creative playfulness.
After exhausting this direction of play he crawls off my lap in search of interesting things to touch and put in his mouth. I watch him pull himself up to standing by holding onto the couch's edge.
First he squats, a skill he has developed to the point of expertise, then he grasps the cushion fabric and while pulling with his sausage arms, he pushes his body upward from the springs of his toes. Once standing he giggles and chortles. Despite having mastered walking, semi-running and even jumping, he still finds delight in his ability to use his legs as springs.
He slides his slippered feet sideways and scuttles himself to the other end of the couch. Once there he spies a yellow highlighter half sticking out from the chair stool. Plopping down to sitting, his fall is cushioned by his diapered bottom.
He wiggles himself closer to the marker by rocking his body back and forth and incrementally sliding. Grunting, "mhm, mhm, mhm," he maneuvers his round torso until he is within reaching distance. He then becomes still and sits quietly studying it.
He spends over a minute contemplating the existence and purpose of this unknown object, then peeks over his shoulder to check if I am watching him. Satisfied that he has my attention, he stretches his hand in the direction of the marker and with fingertips a scant one-eighth inch shy, he pretends he can't reach it. Looking back at me with wide, helpless eyes and an expression of abject misery he whines a frustrated, "uhh uhh uhh."
My bile rushes to the surface. I want to thrust him, dangling in the air by the collar of his knit onesie and shout in his face. "Don't play helpless boy! Get it - grab it, be assertive". I reel from feelings of stoicism and rigidity.
Feeling like the big bad wolf, I instead say in a sweet granny voice, "You can get it, Blake, go on, you can do it."
And he does. He eagerly reaches that little bit extra and pawing up the marker, goes about his kinesthetic vocation of studying it and mastering its complexities.
But this tender urging from me doesn't create any change in his pattern of learned helplessness. He plays the same act every time he wants something.
The next time he pulls the stunt I am ready with a new tactic for him. He is leaning against a chair, reaching for a small tin box full of guitar picks. He looks at me for verbal encouragement and whines, "uh, uh, uhh."
Instead of my usual patient support, I turn it into a game, mimicking his behavior. My arm reaching, I join him with sing-song vocals - "uhh uhh uhh".
His little mouth molds into a gruff scowl, his eyes squint into wrinkled plums. Puzzled by my new behavior, annoyed by the discomfort of change, he doesn't know how to react. He increases the intensity of his plea. "UHH, UHHH, UHHHHHHHH."
I laugh like hard raisins falling on a metal oatmeal tin and raise my ante. He comes back even louder. Soon we are both whooping madly and "UH UHH UHHING" like hail on a metal roof. Rhythmically I add in, "I want it - I want it".
I reach forward, just that little bit further, and snatch the tin box off the chair. I shake the box in his face. The picks inside rattle a maraca beat. I shake it at my hip pretending it is a tambourine.
I hold it over my head and dance up and down on tiptoes, singing, "I got it - I got it - I got it".
Excitement overtaking him, he starts bouncing up and down with total abandon. He shouts as loud as he possibly can, "mne - mne"("mine").
He pulls on my skirt, pounds his fist on my knee, stomps on my shoe. I lower my hand holding the box to just over his head, just beyond his arm's reach. Jumping up, he snatches it from my hand, waves it in the air triumphantly; cackles, screeches, and prances. He takes a turn making maraca and tambourine rhythms, frolicking and singing.
I pull it out of his hand and scream, "I got it - I got it."
He grabs it back, "mne, mne, mne."
Back and forth like this, ten - fifteen times. The game develops variety. He clutches the box to his chest, I stick it in my armpit, he sets it on his head. We're tucking it under pillows, making it play the piano, feeding it to Snarls, the orange teddy bear. I shake out the tune, "Down by the Riverside". He grabs it and pounds out a previously unwritten rhythm against the chair leg.
His Uncle Ed is drawn into the room by the cacophony and tries to join in, but Blake glares at him. "This is a closed game," I say.
Giggling - wiggling, rolling on the carpet. We kick our legs in the air. We toss the box back and forth. We spin it in circles on the glass top coffee table. He drops it down the laundry shoot and I run downstairs to fetch it. I shout up to him through the shoot, "I got it - I got it." I fill a bowl with water and he holds it under for a minute, then lets it go and watches it rise to the surface.
He holds it behind his body and assumes the puzzled expression,
where is it? I reach behind him and slide it down his back, inside his shirt. He laughs and wiggles his torso. I take it out. We both hold on to it at once and play tug-of-war; both of us screaming, "mne, mne, mne."
Finally, energy spent, we lay against pillows on the couch. The box resting on Blake's lap, Blake rests in my arms. A few left over giggles escape our mouths; like soap bubbles they float off and pop.
The EDUCATING MAMA Issue:
