Questions, Questions, Questions—Curiosity Killed the Parents But Fed the Kid

09/10/2009

Remember the Volvo commercial from a couple of years back, where the little girl talks nonstop—from when dad straps her in to when he pulls onto the road? 

That’s my three-year-old T-Rex. Just yesterday, in the car, the conversation went like this: "Mommy, I like you because I'm bigger than you." To which I responded, "Actually, no you're not." And to which my husband added, "Yet."

There was the briefest of pauses, then, "Um. I'm a small boy. I can't play music like big people. I only play teeny-tiny musical instruments."

While I was puzzling over that one, he launched into a stream of logistical questions, delivered staccato. "Vere are we going mommy? Vy is it taking so long? Vy is the car moving?"

"Because…..because….because the wheels are going 'round and 'round."

To quote Bill the Cat, "Ack."

Another category of challenging is the abstract questions—the ones three-year-olds really aren't equipped to know the answers to because they don't have, well, life experience. A case in point. I was driving the kids back from daycare recently, relaxing to some Simon & Garfunkel after a punishing workday. "Kathy’s Song" was playing:

“And so you see I have come to doubt
All that I once held as true
I stand alone without beliefs
The only truth I know is you.

….And as I watch the drops of rain
Weave their weary paths and die
I know that I am like the rain
There but for the grace of you go I.”

T-Rex piped up from the back seat, “Vy is this man singing like that about rain mommy?”

“Uh. Because he’s sad, hon.”

“But vy is he sad?”

“Um. Because his lady love went away.”

“But vy did that lady go away from that man?”

Ack.

I related this incident to my parents, and my father’s response was, “You should have told him it’s because she went off and got [censored] with some other guy.” Strangely, I was reminded of the grandfather in the movie "Little Miss Sunshine."

Anyway. You get the idea. T-Rex asks a lot of questions, many of which I can't answer adequately. So, now I'm the one asking the questions:  Is all his questioning normal? And when he asks the same question over and over, am I supposed to be OK with that?

Of course, I went surfing the Internet for answers, and the resounding answer to both questions is, "Yes!" When kids ask questions it's a good thing, the experts say, because:

● It helps them think critically. Parents, of course, want to answer correctly. But not all questions have a definite answer, and discussing children's questions can help teach them that. They can learn that different ways of asking questions prompt different answers. And when answers aren't clear, they can learn to dig deeper.

● It fosters persistence. Endless questions can get irritating, especially when the same ones are repeated. But shutting them down can send a message that it's not good to keep asking. And in the adult world, pushiness often pays.

● It stems from curiosity, which is linked to good mental health. In the field of positive psychology—what makes life satisfying and meaningful to people—researchers say curiosity is a key indicator of people's success and well-being.

One of the leading researchers in the area, psychologist Todd Kashdan of George Mason University, maintains that curiosity is key to growth. His studies find that the more curious people are, the higher their levels of confidence, autonomy, and spiritual satisfaction.

Curiosity also acts as an antidote to anxiety – opening minds to new people and experiences and superseding self-doubt and fear. It can also keep addiction at bay. And it even helps stave off dementia, not that that's something T-Rex needs to worry about yet.

This all makes sense, but I'm not convinced that curiosity is always good. And Kashdan does acknowledge that it has its dark side. For example, you can be too curious about other people, intruding in their lives and gossiping relentlessly. Keep pressing them on private matters, and they may start making things up.

I think that's what Eugene O'Neill was getting at in the play "Diff'rent" through his character Benny, who said, "Curiosity killed a cat! Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies."

But when it comes to questions about the world—how it works, why the sky is blue, what a vacuum cleaner does, why airplanes leave vapor trails, why mommy paints her toenails, why our dog Simba is so smelly, and why the car is moving—apparently a kid can't ask too many of them.

So I'm bracing myself for many more question-and-answer sessions with T-Rex. But I'm ready to turn more of the questions around on him and to suggest doing research if I don't know the answers.

I'm also seeking a bottomless well of patience—and the energy to explain that some things just don't have answers. Like why did the lady in Kathy's Song go away? Unless Paul Simon is willing to take a call from a three-year-old, I don't think we'll ever know.

Free to Explore the Great Outdoors

07/08/2009

It had been a long, traffic-heavy car ride to Chincoteague Island, with the usual “are we there yets?” getting more frequent and shrill with each mile. So when our car finally crunched across the shells and stopped in front of the waterfront rental, three-year-old Punk snapped off his seatbelt. We opened his door, and he sprang out, jack-in-a-box-style.

He was off like my miniature dachshund, scurrying across the rolling grass, down to the water’s edge on his skinny little bandy legs, with my husband and the family-greeting-crew in hot pursuit. Figuring Punk had more than enough adults to tend to him, I began unloading the car, with our other three-year-old, T-Rex, “helping” me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Punk run onto the jetty, dip his hands in the water, then sprint back out to the lawn to gather rocks and shells. “Plop, plop plop.” He’d pitch the objects into the water, thrill at the splash, then run back for more, shouting, “OH! Look, look, look, Wocks!” He soon enlisted T-Rex in this game, and I headed back inside with another armful of baggage.

It wasn’t long afterward that I heard a screech of pain then, loud, insistent sobbing—the sound of a Punk who’d hurt himself. Marveling that we already had a crisis just 10 minutes after arriving, I ran out to investigate.

To call Punk accident-prone would be an understatement; this is a child who’s not entirely certain where his feet are in relation to his head, let alone all those body parts in between. You can’t really blame him: His head and feet are enormous, and he’ll likely take a while to grow into them, like a puppy does. It’s quite charming and adorable the way he lopes along—sort of an off-kilter waddle punctuated by stumbles and veerings this way and that.

But, unfortunately, his complete neglect of where his feet are results in a lot of spills. And during this particular one—on a neighbor’s lawn—he hit his face on a log, grazing it from nose to lip.

We carried him inside to calm him down, clean off the blood and slather the wound with antibiotic cream. Then I made an executive decision:  To let Punk go right back outside to play and explore more. I had made my own decision to unplug and enjoy the outdoors on this trip—adults need to play too—and I wanted the same for the twins, who spend so much of their time confined to our postage-stamp row-house in the hood. There is no big yard for them to run around in—only rush-hour traffic out front and a rat alley out back.

This, I figured, was the chance for all of us to get some much-needed outdoor exercise. But I didn’t want to tether the twins to me; I would keep them in sight, but give them space to explore. And that is exactly what they did, with enthusiasm: They spent hours playing the rock-throwing game, kicking a soccer ball, catching crabs off the dock with their cousins, and digging in the sand.

Both boys were bursting with excitement when a jellyfish and an eel tugged at the chicken bait. They shrieked in delight when “a big mean cwab” escaped, skittering down the dock. And they mustered the nerve to dip their feet in the ocean for the very first time.

I have never seen them so happy. It shouldn’t be surprising. There’s a movement afoot to get kids to play outside more (amazing; remember when we didn’t need a movement to make that happen?)—and proponent Web site Nature Rocks cites studies showing that kids who explore outdoors are less stressed and develop confidence and social skills. But, of course, there are those who don’t approve of kids wandering free range, investigating their world. 

Our beach neighbor was one such curmudgeon.

One evening, Punk scuttled off on one of his reconnaissance missions, with me and his nine-year-old cousin following at a respectable distance. We stepped up our pace when we saw him crossing into the neighbor’s yard, and began calling to him to come back. Too late. The neighbor-lady had stomped onto her balcony, screaming, “Get OFF my flowerbeds, NOW!!” Honestly, there wasn’t any flowerbed to speak of—just a few scraggly boxwoods. But we got Punk out of there pronto, sending him back where he could explore undeterred.

To our amazement, the next day our disgruntled neighbor posted a series of “No Trespassing” signs along her property line. “Well,” we huffed to one another. “It’s a good thing three-year-olds can READ!”

The last evening we were there, Punk said, “C’MON mommeee! Let’s go catch a big mean cwab! First we need the net, some shicken and a shring.” “And,” added T-Rex, “a bucket!” Armed with this equipment, the two of them marched down to the dock with purpose. They were so focused on their task, I don’t think they even needed me there.

It wasn’t until we were driving home that T-Rex took note of the scab that had now been on Punk’s face for days.

“Hey,” he said. “There’s blood on Punk’s nose.” To which his father replied, “That’s not blood. It’s a scab, so Punk’s nose gets better.”  T-Rex considered this. “So did a log bite him? Is that why there’s a scab?” “Well, no,” I said. “It was more the other way around. Punk fell and hit his face on a log. But you know what? He didn’t let it stop him.”