On Being a Big Boy

Did you know that Bryson is a big boy? Chances are, if you didn't, he'll tell you in the next 5 minutes or so. About six weeks ago, we transitioned Bry from his crib to a "big boy bed," because he kept trying to crawl out of his crib, and we felt due for some kind of milestone.

We got the crib disassembled, plunked his crib mattress on the floor for naptime, and then assembled the new bed just before bedtime. When we went into his room for bedtime, his first question was, "Where's my crib?"

In retrospect, we may have overdone it a little on the "convince Bry he's a big boy" campaign. "You're ready to sleep in big boy bed now because you're a big boy," we told him. He looked at the bed again, "Where's my crib?" "You slept in a crib when you were a baby. Now that you're a big boy, you're ready for a bed with no rails." You'd think that he'd be grateful for us jailbreaking him, but not so much.

After a few nights and no falls, Bry seemed accustomed enough to the new bed, and had stopped asking about his crib. In the following weeks, every time Bry has asserted his independence - whether through insisting that he can climb into his carseat himself, or wash his hands himself, or climb into his booster seat himself, and so on - he'll declare, "I'm a big boy now. I can do it all by myself." Should Steve or I make the mistake of absentmindedly picking him up to plunk him in his carseat, or lift him off the stool after he's washed his hands, he'll remind us, "No, I sleep in a big boy bed now. I can do it by myself." Sleeping in a big boy bed has become the mantra signaling his growing realization that he is his own person, he can take pride in what he does, and he can drive his parents crazy by making them wait the approximately 72 hours that it takes him to crawl into his carseat. He declares to random people on the sidewalk, "I sleep in a big boy bed now." It's sweet to see him puffed up with pride, a look of serious determination on his face. And it makes the times when he does ask for help, "Can you wash my hands for me today, mama?" doubly sweet.

Amusingly, even though Bry has been sleeping in his big boy bed for some time, he hasn't yet entirely figured out that he can get in and out of it of his own free will. Most mornings, when he wakes up, he'll call out from the refuge of his bed, "What does Bryson want to do?" Invariably, the answer to this question is, "Go play with trucks!" I don't know quite why Bry asks about himself in the third person, or why he has persisted on waiting until Steve or I cross the threshold of his room before bolting out of his bed toward the living room and his trucks. One morning he called out, "Sandra, can you come get me?" "You can get out of bed by yourself! You're a big boy!" I called out in response, from the cocoon of my own bed. "Sandra, can you come get me?" came his answer, in a higher, more desperate pitch. And so I did.

Before I Forget

Bryson is a funny guy. A pint-sized comedian, if you will. And the funniest thing about him is that he doesn't know he's being funny until you laugh. But when you do, he joins in like he's training for the giggle Olympics.

The other morning, when I was trying to "coat him" (Bryson's terminology for putting on his coat; also, a request to put his shoes on goes like this: "Shoe me!"), Bry had a truck in each hand. This is not an unusual occurrence. I asked him to please put down his trucks so I could put his coat on. His response? "It's okay mama; the dump truck is quite small." Not just small. Quite small. I laughed. He laughed. Hilarity ensued.

Yesterday morning, Bry was playing with his "animal hospital" (i.e., plastic box with lockable kennels that are proportioned such that one needs to forcefully shove the included stuffed animals in so they fit). He held up the stuffed kitten, shined a flashlight on it, and declared, "This kitty weighs 200,000 pounds!" Same routine with the dog: "This puppy weighs 300,000 pounds!" And finally the parrot: "This bird weighs 500,000 pounds!" With each subsequent animal, the volume of his voice increased, until he reached a fever pitch with "500,000 pounds!" Meanwhile, I'm stuck with the image of a 100-ton cat stalking down the street. "Hmm, that must be a really dense kitty," I respond. For now, my science humor is lost on him. I figure I might as well get him started early though, since he's going to be stuck with his parents' bizarre senses of humor for a long time.

And finally, this morning, on the way to school, Bry was sitting contentedly in his carseat, playing with trucks, per usual. He startled me when he shouted, distraught, "No! There's no wind in the car, excavator!" Bewildered, I asked for clarification. "There's no wind, excavator! You shouldn't turn like that!" came the response. Putting 2 and 2 together, I said, "You think wind makes the excavator's arm move, but there's no wind in the car, so why is the arm moving anyways?" "Yes!" Poor kid doesn't quite understand gravity yet, or, I suppose, Newton's first law of motion. He's continually frustrated when his trucks roll down inclines, or otherwise succumb to the force of gravity by falling, shifting, or moving. He put the truck there, so it should stay there. Simple as that. I suppose it would be mean to laugh out loud at this, so I do my best to stifle my giggles, so that I can attend to his distress with all due gravity. Pun intended. Gotta love the science humor.