Tales from the Granola Box

It’s lunch time and I’m eating a sandwich with Monkey Boy.

He is telling me all about an animal called an I-bird. I-birds don’t fly, they live in caves and i-runs, and they eat salami and cheese and treats. Some of his story is borrowed from an episode of Backyardigans, but most of it is straight out of his own head.

Meals alone with my children are hard for me. Like most three-year-olds, Monkey Boy speaks in monologues, something I have an awful time remaining focused on. Sometimes I let my mind completely wander off, slipping in the occasional ‘yes,’ or ‘wow!’ Other times I read a book, hoping he will finish quickly and go back to his toys.

Both of these things are rude and unfair to my son. They are also not behaviours I want him to model.

I’m making a concerted effort to be present for my child. He chatters on, and I try hard to pay attention. To ask him questions. To make responses that are more than just ‘uh-huh’.

It’s hard. Today is harder than usual, too. We got home late from a playdate, so lunch is later than usual. Pixie is already napping, and I just want lunch to end so we can start quiet time and I can maybe have a few minutes to myself before she wakes up. But I am going to give him the attention he deserves.

The story keeps going. I finish my sandwich, and my eyes drift over to a book left on the table. I force them back to my son. My brain starts going over the groceries I need. I stop it and bring my focus back.

As I listen I am amazed at the depth of Monkey Boy’s imagination. Even the bits he’s borrowed from TV have been changed and re-imagined. Every question I ask reveals more and more of the world he’s created for his I-bird.

The thought flits through my mind, ‘look at what you’ve been missing by not engaging,’ but I push it out of my mind. I refuse to dwell on the past this time. I am paying attention right now, and that is what matters.

It’s still hard. I am fidgety and longing for it to be over, despite my interest. But I keep trying. I can’t sit any longer, so I get up and start emptying and loading the dishwasher, while letting him know I am still paying attention. Being able to move about makes it easier. When he finally finishes his lunch and I take him up for quiet time, I am almost sorry.

I feel good. I feel satisfied with myself for once. Of course Dismal Doris, the little voice in my head, tries once again to get me down.

“Just think,” she whispers, “he starts school in September. You only get him to yourself for a few more months, and look at how much you’ve wasted already.”

If I only get this kind of time for a few more months, I tell Doris, then it’s a good thing I’m intending to make the most of them.