Simon is a volatile three year old. He is fierce and boisterous. He is possessive. We hear daily, hourly maybe, “It’s mine! It’s Simon’s! I need it! I love it!” And it’s usually Samantha’s. Or Seth’s. Or Mine. And not always something particularly lovable or necessary.
Today, Seth was sitting up playing, and I handed him a toy that really was Simon’s, from when Simon was a baby. I hear, from across the room, the sound of rushing steps and “It’s mine! It’s Simon’s! I need it! I love it!”
Well, bitty boy. You’re a big brother, and you’re gonna have to cope. I don’t say that out loud. I’ve learned better than that. No, I diplomatically, calmly, respond, “Seth is going to play with it for a little while. Do you want to play with him?” Mmm hmm. When pigs fly, I know, but I do offer.
Simon responds, predictably, “It’s mine! It’s Simon’s! I need it! I love it!” I stand between the two boys and deflect. Deflect. Deflect. Deflect. I’m getting tired, and Seth is beginning to get a little wall-eyed with all the commotion, when all of a sudden, the toy drops to the floor. Seth has accidentally pushed it off the tray he’s using.
Simon freezes. “Oh no! It fell!”
Think fast, Mama! “Oh no! Simon, can you help him! Can you pick up the toy?”
Simon puffs up, and rushes to the rescue. He returns the toy to Seth, nearly smacking Seth in the head and smashing those little baby hands in his eagerness to assist. And then promptly wanders off to find other, probably more destructive pursuits, pleased to have saved his baby brother’s day.
Thank you, Simon. Your heart is beautiful.