The hardest things

I worry, already, about the day this spot will look empty.  Tucker calls it “Cewie’s couch,” but she shares it with all of us.

I ask him, repeatedly, to share.  Although I feel like a fraud to insist on it.  I read an article recently (Growing Child, July) that said not to insist on it anyway, that children aren’t ready to share until close to age three.  The research suggests encouraging turn-taking, but not talking much beyond some semblance of fairness until later; the author explains that for the purpose of developing a sense of self, possessiveness is a necessary step.
It’s hard to share.  Even before I read that particular essay, because I espouse it and continually fail at it myself, I tried to cut him some slack.  Sharing is, perhaps, the hardest thing we ask young children, at such an early point in their short lives, to do -- to care more about others' feelings and wishes than their own.

The other day Tuck let an ant crawl around on his arm. He spoke to it: Hey little guy, what you doing? Where you going? You like my arm?  At one point the ant fell off, and Tucker, in his enthusiasm to get the ant back, accidentally squished him.  He apologized: Sorry little guy.
It crossed my mind at the time that I could take advantage of the opportunity to speak to Tuck about death, beyond simply: Sorry buddy, the ant is dead. It can’t crawl on your arm anymore.  I haven't found courage enough to research what experts say about talking to toddlers about dying.

This morning when he woke up, still snuggling in bed with his beez under his chin, Tuck said: Celie will not grow up and eat pizza.

I hate that, for him, the hardest thing might not be sharing.
JEB