Many years ago, back in the 1960’s, I was a young mother of a three year old son. Three is such an adorable and delightful age; it’s a time of discovery. It’s a time of endless questions, many of which can stump any young mother who doesn’t happen to have earned degrees in math, science, and astrology. It’s a time to learn about the world and everything surrounding and inside of it.
Adults are all-powerful and colossally large to a three year old child, and as an adult of twenty-five that was a strange concept for me to grasp. I never thought I could wield so much power over one human, never experienced such unlimited, overwhelming might over the life of another person, and never expected another human being to take my word as gospel. I found myself the supreme ruler of my small kingdom of three. I knew I would never feel that important again.
At least, not until the next two children arrived.
One summer afternoon I was home alone with Mark and decided it was a good time for our daily story time accompanied by our afternoon snack. I pulled a plate of washed grapes, the stems of which I had cut into single portion sizes, from the refrigerator. Handing each of us one small bunch apiece I began our afternoon story time.
We sat close together on the sofa, eating grapes as I started reading my favorite Dr.Seuss story,
“Hop On Pop.”
“Stop: Do not Hop on Pop,” I read, until Mark interrupted me with the plea, handing me the empty grape stem,
“Mommy, will you put some more grapes on here?”
It always touched my heart to think that to a three year old child, mommy was all knowing, and could do anything.
Too bad that conviction didn’t last through adolescence.