I remember as a teenager hearing confirmation that an elephant’s large ears weren’t mere decoration, but part of a sophisticated communication system that allowed them to speak and hear at long distances. They exchanged complex bursts of information, much like bees dancing to give directions to new nectar sources. A few weeks ago, I found out that the cartoons I grew up with were right, too: mice do laugh.

But anyone who has spent time grouping kids together know they have their own languages and ways to transfer information. From the obvious ones we see, like shared play and story telling, to lightning fast data transfers that move faster than a Vulcan mind meld. Now that the youngest has figured out both how to defeat the baby gate and manage the stairs quietly enough that her sudden appearance where she should not be has provokes more than a few startled screams, we know we’re doomed.

It’s worth it, of course, it’s always worth it, for them to learn new skills and master their little worlds. Makes them feel accomplished, makes them slightly less dependent on us, makes laugh in the joy of their learning. And when you spend long periods of time raising children, you can see the little changes over time, creeping up into explosions of understanding.

While the youngest is exploding physically, our eldest is exploding inside his head. He’s been taking extra tutoring at his school and daycare, and it’s starting to show in his reading and logic skills, and it’s fascinating watching this growth.

He’s going to be coming up on some hard questions, soon, or rather, we are. Death. Birth we’ve got handled; he recently asked us to go back to the hospital and pick up another baby because he likes them so much. I’ve got a few ideas on how to prepare him to deal with the topic of dying, but I need to look for books, too. Those really help him cement ideas because he can approach them at his own speed in his own way.

He’s also showing a lot of preference for what he wants to do and not do. Swimming lessons have been the hardest. He knows of the basics, but isn’t a fan of his teacher. Or at least that’s the latest claim. He’s big on bargaining, and if we hadn’t just spent the last two weeks with the kids playing pinball cushions to the latest local virus, we would be spending more time practicing with out the teacher. On our last sick day home together, he brought me a book with Evil Elmo that showed swimming lessons. He wants to learn to swim, but it’s got to be on his own terms.

It took us four and a half years of patience, trial runs, preparation of a “haircut kit”, and many shaggy months to get him through a haircut without tears. Hopefully swimming doesn’t take quiet as long – for either of them.

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