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Salt By The Ton

Even the casual observer of early childhood development knows there are no hard and fast rules. One child might learn the alphabet by adding one letter a year until he achieves a closure of sorts at the age of 26, while another might awaken one fine day at the ripe old age of eighteen months and calmly mention that he'd like to try eating cereal with a fork one time, just to see what it feels like.

The ability to utter words and phrases should never be confused with the ability to comprehend and communicate complex ideas, especially during an election year. Very young children, like politicians, can say things which at first can sound logical, or even startling, until one considers the source.

A woman we knew, according to my family's folklore, was approached one day by her novice talker. Clearly puzzled, the tot struggled to find the right words before blurting "What good is it?"

A tough question, no matter how you slice it. The mother wanted to establish some context, but the best she could do was a feeble "What do you mean? What good is what?"

"What good is it? What good is it?" The tyke was getting his hackles up. He was in no mood to mince words; he wanted some straight answers and he wanted them now.

The mother began to panic. She was sitting on a powder keg. The kid barely knew his colors but had apparently decided it was time to get down to brass tacks. She wished she had a decent answer.

She kept hedging, but he refused to parse the question. He was on to something and he knew it, and no grownup, not even Mommy, was going to throw it out on a technicality. He began to repeat the query in and endless loop, intensifying until at last came the inevitable crash. She could hardly begrudge him the tantrum, since this very question had brought her to similar results more times than she cared to admit.

When he calmed down and realized his mother was doing her best, he finally elaborated: "Sometimes it's good morning and sometimes it's good night ... what good is it now?"

Indeed, what good is it?

You have to take it all, as they say, with a grain of salt. Emma is almost two years old. The other day she grabbed my face, looked me in the eyes, and delivered the line with heart-stopping sincerity: "So sweet Papa."

I was blissfully destroyed. Up till this point I had been strictly second fiddle; a cheesy opening act trying to warm up the crowd till Mommy comes home. Now, finally, my just reward.

An hour later she sat on my lap as I checked my e-mail. Gesturing at the monitor, she looked me in the eye once again and intoned: "So sweet computer."

With so many grains of salt in my daily diet it's no wonder I'm hypertense.

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© Todd Pinsky 1998-2002. All rights reserved.