Grandchildren can be useful. While it’s true that I’ve attained a certain age and have accumulated enormous amounts of wisdom, I’m often amazed at the ability of the juvenile brain to provide fresh insights.
Some of the most revelatory moments come while driving. When the little one finally got big enough to have her car seat turned around to face the front, the entire conversation changed. She could (mostly) see what I could see and that was fodder for discussions about motorcycles and school buses, signs and colors, sounds, and idiotic vehicle operators.
I, of course, have the deep observational skills to comment about those drivers, and not only am I able to teach the little observer about driving habits and courtesies, I am also forced to watch my language. Some words she will learn in the fullness of time and she needs no help from me. Although when she does pick up the new terminology, I expect to be there to help her deploy it most effectively.
But the most fun outcome of driving around the city is hearing her questions and commentary as she absorbs the complexities of life.
“Yay, the light is green! You can go! Why aren’t you going?”
“Well, grasshopper, there are cars in front of me, and I have to wait until they move.”
“Yay, you have a green arrow! Go!”
“I have to wait until the oncoming traffic goes past us.”
“But it’s green!!”
Now you have to explain the laws of physics and the importance of an orderly society, which will be enlightening unless she falls asleep, which is likely to happen quickly. (This also happens when I broach these subjects with grownups, so I guess the blame is on me).
But the very best moments are when we’re driving along and she’s riffing on the greenery and lights, and pedestrians, and the signage (although I refuse to try to explain the foot amputation billboards).
Everything comes out when she’s free-associating.
“You’re going to build me a house in that tree and there will be a pool and a place for the cat and we can watch Bluey and you’ll make a special bed for my dolls and then we’ll ride in that truck to the ice cream shop, and can we go to the ice cream shop now?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll plant flowers in the garden but not the red ones because I don’t like them but I’ll collect all the nuts and seeds and I’ll make some mud pies for lunch and we’ll go to the grocery store but my sister doesn’t like to go to the grocery store, so maybe we can go to the toy store instead. Can we go to the toy store?”
“No.”
“There’s a penguin at the toy store and I can give it a bath with Peppa Pig. Water’s my best friend! Oh, listen, the motor in that truck is loud! Can I have a French fry?”
“Sure, here you go.”
“Yay — can I have some ketchup?”
“I’m driving now but I’ll give you some when we get home.”
“Well, OK. But I don’t want to go through the car wash. It makes me scared.”
“Are you sure? I’ll be with you all the way.”
“No, it’s scary and makes too much noise but maybe you can take me through it.”
“Didn’t you just say you didn’t want to go in the car wash?”
“Yes, but that’s because I’m scared.”
“Would you rather go skydiving?”
“Sure!”
I’m thinking about acquiring a dash cam, not only to expose those idiotic vehicle operators but to keep a video diary of the shenanigans inside the car. She has already been recorded practicing singing to Babymetal and I’m trying to get her started on sacred choral concert music. There will be auditions in her life and I want her to be more prepared than I ever was, like that time I read for a non-singing role in a musical but they made me sing anyway.
It is, therefore, essential to listen to what she has to say and instruct her on the importance of discipline as she approaches new interests and responsibilities. And for that, I must set a proper example.
“Can we go to the ice cream shop now?”
“Sure, what flavor do you want?”