Little lion

The short wirey 20-month-year-old fair-haired lad is a lion for learning. Doing until mastering is his modus.

For instance, at a play place a few days ago, he must have practiced going in and out of a plastic car twenty times, opening the door and stepping in, closing the door, opening it again and stepping out, until he felt satisfied that he could make that little swivel of the hips the move requires. Only then did he practice sitting in it and actually pushing himself somewhere with his feet.

Or, the day before yesterday, at a nature center, on a bridge over a small stream, he was introduced to the pleasures of tossing sticks into flowing water. Not one stick, not even a dozen, and each thrown sometimes out, sometimes up, and followed in the water by leaning over the rail and hard gazing. Oh, that one's in the current lazily floating, that other one's on the sandy bank.

Or, there's the game he invented yesterday of hide and seek involving a picture book we got from the library and an old cell phone. Lifting the cover the book, placing the phone carefully in the center, dropping the cover, turning to us with hands out-turned and a querulous tone implying "Where's the phone?"  Maybe a quick run into his bedroom to suggest that's the place to look. Then back to the book: "Here it is" his tone of voice tells us.

These games or activities are very kinetic, very physical, though the last depended on our collaboration for the fun. But other objects, other activities intrigue him in a different way. The cell phone, for instance.  He loves to handle it: the right size and shape and heft. He holds it to his ear and says something like Hello. He holds it in front of his eyes like a camera. He presses the buttons, and because there's a little battery life left and the image of a circle sometimes appears, he remarks on this. He has seen his adults use phones and he is mimicking us, thinking that there must be something, some power, in this object that causes the grown-ups to use it over and over, and I want to use it too.

Yesterday, in the children's section of the library, a refuge from the cold wind and sharp rain, he was fascinated by computer keyboards, sitting on a chair, and lifting both hands to shoulder level, to press and play on the keys, as well as move the mouse. Nothing happened on the screen because we hadn't logged in but nonetheless he had seen his father and mother do it, and wanted to do the same. The link between actions and screen wasn't interesting, hardly acknowledged. Perhaps he enjoyed the sheer sensation of keys rattling under his fingers, but it's also that he understands something attractive is accessible on the computer through finger activities that is worth wanting.

Into and out of a vehicle, sticks in the river, a game with regular applause and approbation, these activities have overt rewards--kinesthetic, visible, social. The rewards of the cell phone or computer are implied by the involvement of the adults around him, and though second-hand, he's wants to be involved as well. He must be aware not just of what interests him but that he is interested, because he infers that interest in others.

This strikes me as a subtle, though normal, realization. We adults inhabit a world invisible to Meja but he is exploring it through what attracts our attention and provokes action. This is a deep motivational mimicry of the same order as the detective's question 'Cui bono?' and the investigative reporter's 'Follow the money.'

One day, not too soon I hope, the phone and computer will be interesting for the sake of their content but right now the conversation in Meja's mind is about conversation itself. The world of adult motivations is what he is eager to map, using electronics as his landmarks.

I sometime feel the same about pieces of art or music or anything designed or created. The very existence of some object, a product of someone's time and effort, may be reason enough to look again, perhaps event to try to do the same. Meja, maybe I should follow your lead.