Age Translation

         I have found an unexpected instrument of language interpretation and translation: our six year old.
         Our two year old, Charlie, is apparently convinced every shoe in the house is dirty, or at least unsatisfactorily dry, and he has made it his loyal duty to make sure they all receive a proper wash in the plastic pool I nearly suffocated myself inflating.  During one of his many rescue/recon missions back into the house, he has spotted an unexpected delight on the kitchen counter: a bag of cookies.  He is drawn to the colored sprinkle covered cookie calling to him from the front of the package and has aborted his duty to shoe and country.  I try to explain to him that the bag is not, in fact, cookies, but powder that has to be made into cookies.  He is not pleased with my obvious efforts to distract and confuse him, insisting that i open the package at once and reward him with a cookie.

            Against my hardest convictions and earnest explanations, he is not convinced that the bag before him does not, as he suspects, contain cookies.  I mean, what cruel and unusual punishment would it be for the caretakers and authorities at home to put before him such a delectably inviting looking treat?  Why can he not simply rip open the bag and enjoy the cookies promised on the packaging?  Because, my son, the world is a cruel place.

            I have explained to him that it is just powder, not actual cookies; to which he has responded in his language, gesturing me to open it at once and prove it.  In lieu of cookie powder blanketing the kitchen, I hand him the bag and tell him to shake it.  He immediately sat down and tried to figure out the inhumane security measures that have been taken to ensure no one, especially him, can enjoy the tasty treats within. 

            Perplexed by his current predicament, he handed the bag back to me and asked me to open it.  I tried explaining once again that the contents of the misleading package are not what he really wants, offering a substitute of crackers and pretzels.  He doesn't want crackers or pretzels, though; his little heart is set on those damn cookies.  I am trying to avoid an all out tantrum, but I fear there is a storm brewing on the horizon. 

            He is gesturing maniacally, seated on the floor in the middle of the kitchen, slowing my dinner production to a stand still.  He is determined, willing to lay down his life , to have a cookie.  Despite my best efforts to appease him and discredit the obvious yet misleading picture strategically and mockingly placed on the face of the package, I cannot convince him that there are no cookies to be had.  He storms out of the kitchen and onto the porch where his sisters are playing quietly, undoubtedly pleading his case to the panel of small judges.

            Within minutes, they all stop what they are doing and find their seats at their little table.  With my three children seated around their Disney princess table like the council of Trent, they summon me to them with shouting and emphatic gestures.  Upon my arrival, my four year old informs me that, above everything else in the world, Charlie wants a cookie. 

            Thank you, Scarlett.  I am aware of this.

Ready to conduct their grueling cross examination of the witness, they demand answers as to why Charlie cannot have a cookie.  I quickly plead my defense, explaining to them that not only is it dinner time, but the cookies are not made, and produce exhibit A, the bag of mix, for them to examine and deliberate over.  My six year old clearly understands the situation, and stares ominously at Charlie waiting for him to come unglued.  

            I can see the confusion mounting on his chubby face; his brow angled in anger.  I try to hold him and show him, once again, that the bag is void of cookies, but he refuses and struggles to be free.  I look pleadingly at my daughters, begging them for any assistance they can offer.  I turn to my six year old and ask her to explain to her brother why we cannot have cookies, to which she says simply, “it’s for cooking”.
             I am shocked by my son's apparent satisfaction with the answer, but his frustration evaporates like he has had a sudden moment of clarity and he quickly collects himself and goes about his business of making sure the rest of the shoes make it into the pool safely.

            How often the simple solution can evade us.  "It's for cooking".  Now why couldn't I have thought of that?  Why did I have to go through the rigors and trials of explaining the scientific differences between the cookies we eat and the mixes they derive from?  Why do we find ourselves struggling day by day to explain things as simply as possible?  Because we don't think like six year olds.  We don't see the simplicity in life or the uncomplicated view of childhood.  We are too busy worrying about the stresses and setbacks of adulthood to remember and appreciate the freedom and levity of being a child.