My 2-year-old son has started singing “Itsy-Bitsy Spider” with a deep, gravelly voice like Froggy on “The Little Rascals.”
“Down came the rain and washed the spider OUT,” he barks.
It’s cute, in a slightly unsettling way.
The point is, he is learning to act. With a funny voice, he can command a room. Yet, he wants more. He wants to control the whole house.
When I got home from work one day last week, I heard him bellowing from the top of the stairs.
“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” he yapped.
“How can a little boy be so loud?” I thought.
Immediately, I bounded up the stairs, gathered him into my arms and collapsed on the couch to tickle him into submission. He pulled on my necktie, and I pretended to choke.
In my peripheral vision, I saw my 7-year-old son skulking by. I turned just in time to see him leave the room. I could tell from his slumped posture that something was wrong.
I looked at my wife for guidance.
“He needs some daddy time, too,” she reminded me, nodding toward my older son.
Of course, I thought, feeling instantly ashamed. Toddlers are so needy and cute that, before you realize it, they’ve hogged your attention.
I handed off our 2-year-old to my wife and resolved to spend the rest of the night with my older boy.
As I sat with my arm around him on the couch, I picked up a newspaper. I taught him how to read the baseball standings. He needed help with “St. Louis” and “Cincinnati.”
Then, we watched a little television. His new favorite show is “Destroyed in Seconds,” a cable program that features explosions and car wrecks captured on video.
Afterward, we played a game of foosball, and I noticed that he has recently developed lightning-fast reflexes. He won 10-7 and rubbed it in.
“You should guard your goal better,” he said, matter-of-factly.
Later, during homework time, I was reminded that his oral reading now has cadence and inflection. Last year’s halting kindergarten reader is today’s confident first-grader.
At bedtime, I tucked him in, and for the first time in years I told him a bedtime story — about a fictional 1-inch-tall character named Baby Boy who, on this night, made a working helicopter out of Popsicle sticks and a hollowed-out apple.
My 7-year-old giggled so hard that he thrashed around and twisted up the sheets.
After the story, I tucked him in, pushed back his bangs with my hand and kissed him on the forehead.
“Can you check back on me in three minutes,” he said.
“Sure,” I said, but he was snoring softly before I could even turn out the lights.
I realized on that night that boyhood accelerates with each passing year. My older son is maturing so quickly that I can almost see his footprints trailing off in front of me.
But at least for one night he was 2 again, laughing at my made-up bedtime story and cuddling up to me on the couch.
It reminded me of the aching love that we reserve for our firstborn children. If we become distracted, they can always beckon us back, without even raising a voice.
