Listen

Flour is swirling around the kitchen like little flakes of snow. My son, who is the cause of the flurries, looks like a very skinny, curly haired snowman, caked head to foot in white flour. Already stressed, I ignore the fact that my kid is the cutest snowman in the world and I bark, “That is not what I meant by keep the flour on the counter!” He grins at me and explains, “I just wanted to clean the counter off so you can make the pies.” I return his smile as I realize that his actions were not an act of random malice but one of love. Together we clean up the flour and begin making pies. As we roll dough out I begin to recall how often I jump to anger before I know the intentions of my son. Too often, I only see the lack of his common sense, when in reality, his thought process often makes more sense than my anger. I ponder other times when my son's logic outshone my understanding, such as, the other day when my son was hysterical that I was not eating my breakfast. I explained that I was sick and didn't want to eat anything, but my words bounced off his head and disappeared into outer space. His cries became shill and unearthly. “Stop! why are you freaking out about this?” I snapped at him. He gazed at me with big brown, tear-filled eyes. “I just want you to eat so you can be healthy.” Looking at things from his perspective presented me with an understanding of his world. At times, all I see is him being a crazy monster-boy with endless amounts of energy, but when I stop to listen to his reasoning, his jumping on the furniture becomes a necessity when the floor is covered with lava. Him smashing his toys around becomes a high-speed car chase in which the police car must prevail at any cost. His hitting the dogs with sticks become a desperate attempt to feed the starving animals. I return my gaze to my son as he pats a thick piece of dough into a pie tin. Initially, I want to tell him that the dough is much too thick, but before I do, he grins at me and says, “Look what I'm doing Mommy! I am making a pie for you all by myself.” In that moment, I turn my mind into a little girl around the age of four and I see his pie as perfection. I see his joy in his accomplishment. I abandon any intention of telling him that's his pie is not good enough. “Sure, it is important to teach him how to do things right,” I think to myself, “but his world is pure and happy. Right now, that is enough.”