Balloons of Knowledge

When Ellie was little, everything she knew could be traced back to basically just two people: her Mommy and her Papi. We took pride in everything new that she learned.

"See how she blows raspberries? I taught her that!"

"Look sweetie, she's giving high fives-- just like Papi taught her!"

Sometimes we'd take the nonchalant, cool approach to our gloating:

"Yeah, she flushes the toilet. What, you didn't know that? Yeah, that was all me."

"Of course she's saying 'See ya later, alligator.' She has been for weeks. Where have you been??"

Eventually they start daycare or preschool, and learn knew things that don't come from Mommy or Daddy. But the learning process is still so transparent:

"You're right Ellie, that is a fire truck! You must have learned about those in school today."

Deductive reasoning still allows for a pretty clear knowledge of where the child's new-found word or skill is coming from.

"Did you teach her that? Me neither. Musta been at preschool."

Eventually, though, this deductive reasoning process no longer works. At a certain age, children become extra absorbent sponges.... And as if they were collecting balloons in a bunch, they frantically pull facts and info from all around them, collecting a colorful array of knowledge floating just above their heads, and held onto by a string. A slight tug of the string gives them full access to their new globe of knowledge, and there it is right in front of them, to execute or display however they please. When they're done with that particular balloon-fact, they simply let up on the string and release it back into the colorful bouquet it came from. But always, always, those balloons are hovering over their little heads, and they multiply by the second.

And a scary thing begins to happen: We as parents have no idea where all those balloons are coming from.

Ellie will be 4 this August, and her balloon bouquet of knowledge is so vast and colorful, it could fill a forest and block out the sun. It intimidates me at times. She knows things that she shouldn't (according to her naive young mother) know. She displays behaviors that seem, at times, too mature for her age. Don't get me wrong, she's still 3. She still wets the bed at night and cries when I forget to leave her Flintstones vitamin out by the TV for her to take every morning. There is still the occasional tantrum, imaginary friends, and snuggling stuffed animals at night.

But that child knows too much.

Yesterday morning I had the hiccups. Ellie was customarily leaning on the doorway of the bathroom door, watching me put on my makeup. I hiccupped, then frowned.

"Ellie, did you hear that? I have hiccups."

Her eyebrows shot up into a forehead lined with worry.

"Mommy," she began, taking on a very serious tone. "Maybe I can scare your hiccups away."  

(Who taught her that hiccups can be scared away??)

She growled at me ferociously. We waited. hic-CUP!

I patted her head. "That was VERY scary! But I still have hiccups."

"I know what you need. You need a drink of water! Wait here," she ordered, holding her hand up in the don't-move signal. She disappeared and emerged from her room a couple of seconds later with a plastic cup she'd been hoarding in her toy kitchen set. She watched, eyebrows raised expectantly now, as I filled the cup with a little water from the tap and "drank". (Really I was pretending, because that cup had been all over her messy room and no way was I actually drinking from it.)

We stared at each other and waited. hic-CUP!

Her expressive eyebrows pulled together in frustration for a split second, then relaxed. 

"Mommy," she exclaimed, undaunted. "You need to drink MILK this time! That should work!"

Now who in the world taught her that milk is thicker than water, and will work better in getting rid of hiccups after water has failed to do the trick? Is she just that smart and figured it out?

"Great idea! I will drink some as soon as I get to work, 'cause I just brushed my teeth."

"Mommy," she began, once again concerned. "That milk was sitting out all night at your work! I think it's gonna be bad, and your tummy's gonna hurt."

Once again: Who taught her that leaving milk out will make it go sour and hurt our tummies?? 

I mean now we're talking Chemistry, people!

I smiled and bent down to give her kisses and reassure her. "I have a fridge at work. My milk will be nice and cold."

That promise satisfied her worries. Off she went to play until it was time to leave, and as I watched her tuck a stuffed monkey into a basket with a washcloth blanket, she was 3 again.