Lessons from a Little Nut

by Robin Dutton-Cookston

"How ‘bout....go shopping?"

My daughter’s blue eyes popped wide open with sincerity as she made this unexpected request. In shock, I momentarily forgot my half-hour long struggle to get her to take a dang nap. I stared in amazement.

My God, she wants to go shopping! I thought. Where the heck did little Grace learn to say such a thing?

No doubt she was only repeating something heard around the house in the midst of holiday hoopla. I was nonetheless astounded that my child could so cleverly try to finagle getting out of a nap by suggesting that we take a jaunt to the Gap.

My astonishment arose from the fact that, once again, parenthood brought a cliché to life. I used to watch a TV show, hosted by Bill Cosby, called "Kids Say the Darnedest Things." It consisted of the Coz grilling a menagerie of dimpled charmers who quipped off double-entendres and misinformation about anatomy.  It was full of gems like, "My mommy is going to the hospital to have the baby come out of her Virginia."

This brainless show appealed to a primordial sense of humor that I share with my otherwise cerebral hubby, Jeff. It is no-thought-required, downright stupid humor, just like another winner, "America’s Funniest Home Videos." A key difference in the two shows is, of course, AFV’s tendency to showcase a gut-busting, knee-slapping montage of men smashing their gonads on run-amuck vacuum cleaners and the business ends of powerboats.

But I digress.  Although I once loved Cosby’s clever banter with the pre-K set, I took the show to be staged, a fakeroo.  Now that I am the mama of a newly jabbering tyke, I understand that you can’t make this stuff up.

I should have gotten a clue a few years back.  Jeff and I spent the weekend at a ranch house in the Texas hill country with good friends and their three-year old son. One night as we all sat out by the campfire, roasting marshmallows, our flashlight suddenly went kaput.

Our hosts went off in search of a new flashlight, leaving their son, Nate, out by the campfire with Jeff and me.  Jeff, thinking this a prime time to teach young Nate about the ways of the world, launched into a well-constructed metaphor that ultimately compared the busted flashlight to a car that needed gasoline.

As Jeff finished his diatribe, three-year-old Nate soulfully looked up from his perch by the dwindling flames.  He took in Jeff’s astute nugget of information, the wonder in his wide eyes reflecting the glow of the orange embers.

"No," he said, "It just needs batteries." He might as well have added, "You dimwit."

Perhaps, as non-parents, we too quickly chose to forget Nate’s shaming of Jeff, because Grace’s simple pronouncements continue to stop us in our tracks. Her tiny, thoughtful statements often resemble proverbs culled from wizened philosophers of eras gone by.

I have heard toddler speak described as the "Little Buddha" stage, because of this ability to convey so much with so few words. I couldn’t agree more.  Consider these other lessons to be learned from my daughter’s sage bits of prose:

While visiting family over the holidays, we took a walk along the banks of Lake Nasworthy, outside of San Angelo, Texas. Jeff and I hoofed along like yuppies on treadmills, but Grace meandered to and fro, checking out the subtle nuances of groundcover along the way. At one point she stopped, squatted down, and patted the earth beneath her feet.

"I like this dirt!" she proclaimed, then looked up to make sure that Mama and Daddy saw her object of appreciation.

I stared at the damp, red circle on which she squatted and remembered when it felt good to rub my hands in something nice and gritty, when the sensation of dirt under my nails did not evoke the immediate need for a manicure.

We don’t have a lot of dirt where we play in San Francisco. Our microscopic back garden hosts flagstones, weeds, and an infestation of never-ending spider webs. Wide sidewalks and asphalt surround our house.  Our playground refuge has lots of sand, but no honest to goodness dirt. For that we must venture into the questionable area of the park’s dog run, where poop, broken glass, and who knows what else awaits her tiny hands.

Yes, I thought. I like this dirt, too. Thanks for the reminder, kid.

Another lesson came in the form of a Christmas stocking stuffer request. Over the years, my mom has created beautiful, hand-stitched stockings, personalized for each member of our family. This Christmas, Grace stared at them, enraptured by the swirls of brightly colored thread. We explained, several times, how we load up the stockings with special gifts, and I think Grace caught on.

When I finally asked her, "Grace, what would you like in your stocking?" she replied:

"Little nut."

The simplicity of her request was refreshing and comforting in the face of the mass consumerism that Jeff and I constantly fight to keep away from our toddler. I know that she will soon begin her demands for Archeologist Barbie or SpongeBob Squarepants Beginning Dentistry Kit, but thank God she is still immune to the ooze of child-directing marketing.

Little nut.  Simple.  Basic.  Easy to accommodate and reflective of one of Grace’s favorite snacks.  On Christmas morning, Grace reached into her stocking, her mouth opened wide in amazement, and she gasped with joy as she pulled out a baggie full of little nuts.

It reminded me to be grateful for those core blessings during the holidays. Good company, good food, and, if I am lucky, a special treat, like a little nut.

So, what about the "go shopping" request? Since Grace now repeats after me, I have to not only watch my potty mouth language, but also keep my greed in check. If I want to raise a girl whose self-esteem runs deeper than how good she looks in her jeans, I better model that in both words and behavior. Wouldn’t it be nice if the next time Grace tries to sneak out of taking a nap she says, "How ’bout go volunteer?"

But, then again, life is a balance between caring for others and sometimes pampering ourselves. As Grace gets a little older I may cash in on her recent suggestion and celebrate a special event with some good old mother-daughter bonding through consumerism.

It won’t be too hard to utter the words, "How ’bout go shopping?"

A native Texan, Robin Dutton-Cookston found out she was pregnant the week she moved to San Francisco. Robin loves raising her daughter in her adopted city but she still misses being called "Sugar" by waitresses with beehive hairdos. She wants her daughter to grow up knowing the subtle but important distinction between East Texas and West Texas barbeque sauces.

Robin’s essays have been published in (or on) various publications and web sites, including Hip Mama, Clamor, The Noe Valley Voice, Fertile Ground, and Imperfectparent.com. Her regular column, "The Foggiest Idea," chronicles life as a displaced Texas mama in San Francisco. It can be found at SanityCentral.com. Robin also self-publishes a parenting zine called Apron Strings: A Zine for Mamas, Papas, and People Who Have Them.