I remember the day I turned four years old. I got a new blue dress, a Raggedy Ann doll that was as big as I was, and shiny black, patent leather shoes that I'd asked for for months with my rather large collection of spoken words.
The shoes made the ground slippery under my feet. Having had no experience with this, I ran full speed, holding my giant doll, through the garage with the intention of reaching the back yard. The bottoms of my new shoes didn't make it two running steps across the polished concrete of the garage floor before slipping right out from under me. My legs flew into the air, my dress tangled instantly around my ankles, and the back of my head hit the concrete with a thud. I cried, hugged my mom, and learned all about not running with dress shoes on. Still, it was the best day ever. I fed Raggedy Ann chocolate cake, christening her with her first grubby kid touches, and then kissed her night night before falling asleep happy, full, and absolutely exhausted.
I've been waiting for Cale to turn four. Not the kind of watching the clock waiting. No. The waiting for the universe to change it's course kind of waiting. The 'not savoring the present moment because I'm waiting' kind of waiting. The "I won't be okay until" kind. The hopeless sort, the kind that keeps the soul stopped dead in it's very tracks.
I've always thought that four was the perfect age, the magic turning point, the switch from toddler to child. And it was those things for Alden and Isabel. Most of my own memories started at four years old, direct communication was in full swing, and potty training was but a distant memory. I could go outside by myself, I knew to look both ways before crossing the street, and there was no need to scream anymore, ever, unless of course my head hit concrete. But the single most important and most profound thing that happened for me by four years old, the thing I've been waiting for in Cale and that happened by four for both Alden and Isabel, was that I could tell the people in my life with my words that I loved them.
I thought about all this as I stood in the baby aisle at Target trying to decide what birthday present to get Cale. I couldn't decide whether I should get him the push button spinning ball thingy that said 6mo. and up on it OR the baby gum ball machine full of brightly colored plastic "gum" balls that said 18mo. and up on it. The latter required two steps (turn the knob and push the lever) to get the ball to come out. My dilemma was that I knew he'd love the spinning ball thingy but felt he should have the more challenging toy, even if it would just piss him off in which case I'd have to listen to more screaming. In the end I bought both baby toys, my expectations for Cale's fourth birthday shot out of the air like a bird mid-flight.
Cale just doesn't think the way regular people do. It's not that he doesn't love me although that is what it looks like sometimes. Usually when I try to play with Cale he gets upset. This is generally because I don't understand the way he thinks. When we're stacking cups, for example, he stacks three and if you add another it's incredibly disturbing to him. I don't know this going in to the situation, it makes no sense to me what-so-ever, nor could I guess it ahead of time. So when I add the fourth cup he screams, throws the cups at me, and walks away. This is because he has no words with which to tell me what he's thinking.
At about the third activity I try to engage him in, with the result of him screaming and walking away, I become so upset that I can't try to play with him anymore. So I put him in the bath tub where he calms instantly. It comforts him a great deal to pour water out of a cup in a steady little stream, watching the details of it as it lands on the tub's edge and then trickles back down into the collective pool where he sits. If I grab a cup and try to pour with him, he usually screams and turns his back to me and I end up feeling like he loves the water more than his mom. But I keep pouring anyways.
What will he remember when he grows up? He won't have memories of asking for shoes and running through the garage. He won't have the delightful memories of pretending to feed dolls chocolate cake. Will he remember the fourth cup? Will he remember the screaming? Will he remember the details of the pouring water? And what will he do with that?
On the night of his fourth birthday after he'd smeared birthday cake on his face like a one year old, loved the 6mo. toy and hated the the 18mo. toy, and didn't seem to notice at all that it was special day for him, I put him to bed realizing that the magic four year old mark had completely lost it's memorable nature. The sharpness of this snipped the last of the stitches in any remaining seams of my hope for Cale becoming "normal" some day.
I laid him down in his bed at bedtime, covered him up with his puffy blanket, and thought, "Maybe it's time to start reading to him more seriously, and not just Brown Bear, Brown Bear or something else of a repetitive nature. Maybe an actual story. Maybe four can mark the day he sat still for an entire story." I was desperate for something. Anything.
So instead of pushing the button on his singing toy, I grabbed the very first story book that happened to be laying on his floor amongst his toys and I began to read it.
He layed in his bed and watched my face closely. The book I had grabbed was "The Runaway Bunny" by Margaret Wise Brown, and I had no idea it would hit me like a pound of concrete right between my eyes. I was almost sobbing about the second sentence in. It goes like this:
Once there was a little bunny who wanted to run away. So he said to his mother, "I am running away."
"If you run away," said his mother, "I will run after you. For you are my little bunny."
"If you run after me," said the little bunny, "I will become a fish in a trout stream and I will swim away from you."
"If you become a fish in a trout stream," said his mother, "I will become a fisherman and I will fish for you."
"If you become a fisherman," said the little bunny, "I will become a rock on the mountain, high above you."
"If you become a rock on the mountain high above me," said his mother, "I will be a mountain climber, and I will climb to where you are."
"If you become a mountain climber," said the little bunny, "I will be a crocus in a hidden garden."
"If you become a crocus in a hidden garden," said his mother, "I will be a gardener, And I will find you."
"If you are a gardener and find me," said the little bunny, "I will be a bird and fly away from you."
"If you become a bird and fly away from me," said his mother, "I will be a tree that you come home to."
"If you become a tree," said the little bunny, "I will become a little sailboat, and I will sail away from you."
It was here that Cale put his hand on my arm. I suddenly realized that my face was contorted and my eyes were soaking wet, so I tried to smile as I kept reading. But, he put his hand on my arm again. I stopped reading and looked at him. He was staring into my eyes with a serious look, a confused crinkle right between his eyes.
He continued to stare at me for a few moments with that serious look, his giant gray eyes not blinking one time. Then he gently poked my eye and looked at the tear drop sitting on his finger before looking back at me again. "Oh my God!" I thought. Right then I realized that he wasn't running away. He was right there.
Then he grabbed the book, threw it on the floor, and smiled big as he put my hand on his singing toy and began bouncing softly to the imaginary beat. So I pushed the button and sang and he smiled his big baby smile and something about "normal" versus "not normal" shifted and became "who cares anyway." Baby Cale gave me his own magic mark on his fourth birthday. He let me know that I'm not a just a toy, and maybe even that he loved me.
