Three's a Charm

Ordinarily, ‘three’s a charm’ refers to attempts to accomplish something. Today I’m using it to explore the charming attributes of three-year-old kids. Tori was three and a half when she came to live with us permanently. We missed a lot of her development during the prior eight months while she languished in foster care. Language presented an especially knotty problem because we didn’t know the speech patterns she had picked up as she expanded her vocabulary.

Take the case of lemma lemmas. We had no idea what she meant when she asked for them, which she did persistently. One day, when she begged me for lemma-lemmas at Walgreens, my brain engaged and I said, “Show me the lemma-lemmas, Tori.” Off she went, quickly finding the candy aisle. By the time I got there, she had a bag of M&Ms in her little hands. “Lemma-lemmas!” she said. “Yes!” I said back to her. To myself, I said, “For heaven’s sake. How did you miss that?”

 Our grandson, who turned three mere weeks ago, is not as language-adept as his mother had been. (He is also six months younger than Tori’s lemma-lemma days.) But he’s quickly acquiring words and, with this kiddo, we understand a lot of things that outsiders wouldn’t. “Gramma,” he rumbles in the deliberately deep voice he uses when he wants something, all the while tugging on one of my hands with both of his. “C’mere.” “What do you want, AJ? Grandma’s busy.” “Gramma, c’mere!”

 The child weighs 55 pounds, so this two-handed tug of his requires bracing to resist. If I can stop what I’m doing and go along, it’s usually a trip to the bookshelf or his toy box. Hurling cars down his two-track raceway is popular, as well. Sometimes he’ll pull over one of his tiny chairs and command, “Sit, Grandma. Sit!” “That chair’s too little! I can’t sit there,” leads to dramatic scenes where he throws himself on the floor (being careful not to hit his head on the tile) or perhaps throws the chair. Anger management is a work in progress.

 AJ recognizes when he’s taking the wrong approach. He will clasp his little hands together in supplication, tilt his head up to look at you, bat his eyes (yes, bat his eyes), and say, “Pwease?” in the most pitiful voice you’ve ever heard. Whoever taught him to do that – I’m looking at you, Tori - probably regrets it daily. 

 We babysit while Tori works the late shift, so several times a week we put AJ to bed. He’s resistant most nights; it’s usually a two-person venture. Last night, after we tucked him in and turned on Mozart for his listening pleasure, he looked at Michael and said, “Nigh-nigh.” Michael kissed his forehead and said goodnight back. I took my turn and kissed him goodnight as well. This is going to be an easy bedtime, I thought to myself.

 As if he read my mind, AJ followed with, “Grampa, weave.” Michael blinked once or twice, parsing the command, then said, “Do you want me to leave, AJ?” “Yup,” came the reply. Michael looked at me and shrugged. “He wants me to leave.” ‘Fine, go then,” I told him, still hoping for that easy bedtime.

 After Michael exited the room, AJ rolled toward me. He grabbed my hand in both of his and pulled it to his chest. Snuggling with my hand, he looked up at me. A beatific - and self-satisfied - smile spread across his face. “Gramma. C’mere.” Five minutes later, he was fast asleep.

 Ciao