There are some people – my sister and Jason’s middle brother come to mind – who are claustrophobic. They fear being confined in small spaces; get panicky at the mere thought of them. And there are some people, like our oldest child, who actually orchestrate situations in which they can be ensconced in a small space. A small space without light, even.
As I was watching the professor create a submarine out of a box for the Gort this weekend, I couldn’t help but think it odd that the kid was choosing to climb into a box. A box with a lid. To be trapped in total darkness, save the holes his dad had cleverly carved along the side.
There we stood: three firstborns. All unclaustrophobic, though I highly doubt I’d climb into a submarine box ‘for fun’. I wondered if the Hen would take after his second born uncle and aunt. Though it’s possible a child who willingly walks around with a pillowcase over his head may not have claustrophobic tendencies.
As we went for a family walk in Edworthy park last week, I looked at this pocket sized kid who might as well have the word ‘ham’ tattoed on his forehead. He was walking along the trail…backwards. Oblivious to the fact that he might trip on the rocks and roots protruding from the ground. As we walked back to the car, he draped his pillowcase over his head. Like the infamous ‘Blanket’ Jackson.
I’ve been thinking about nature versus nurture. Wondering….if the boys were living with a different set of parents, would their personalities be different?
If his parents were a professional cyclist and an accountant, would the Gort still find a way to draw and paint as often as possible? Would he ‘ride’ (sit on the seat with his legs extended along the sides) his brother’s tricycle from the deck to the garage door clad in his special bike riding outfit?
Would he have his ‘unique’ approach to logic?
I was standing at the sink cutting a jalapeno pepper, which he proceeded to touch with his hands. I told him if you didn’t wash your hands after touching a jalapeno and you rubbed your eyes, it would sting and burn. A LOT. (Because I’ve done it a thousand times.)
So he went to the bathroom to wash his hands. ‘Are you sure you washed really well?’ I asked, doing my best to avoid a potential cataclysmic meltdown before bed. He thought for a millisecond before replying: ‘how about this….can you put your face next to mine?’ (His way of making sure I’m paying attention to what he’s saying.)
‘Why don’t you let me rub my fingers in your eyes and then you can tell me if it hurts,’ he suggested. As if it was the most logical solution in all the world.
If the Hen had different parents, would he refrain from speaking in eardrum-shattering tones? Would he not yell ‘Mommy’ and ‘Daddy’ like Will Ferrell yells ‘Meatloaf’ to his mother in Wedding Crashers? Would he walk around the living room holding two balled up (used, intended for the trash can) diapers to his ears like telephones? Before smashing them against the living room window?
I like to think they’d be ‘quirky’ even if they were part of the Bill Gates family. Though I’m guessing Bill Gates doesn’t walk around the house singing bits of ‘Single Ladies’. After watching an episode of ‘Glee’ online.
To paraphrase a quote I saw on Facebook of all places, ‘some people call me a weirdo….why can’t they call me a funno?’