Grandparenting: 'why?' questions and a strong silent type

After a thirsty outing on their motorbikes
Matilda and Elliott share some refreshment

The ‘why?’ phase is a rich moment in a child’s development, as I rediscovered on my most recent grandparenting escapade.

One of my earliest memories is of sitting on my father’s lap for a long conversation in which I said little more than “why?”.

“Why don’t planes fall out of the sky, Daddy?”

“Because the air keeps them up there.”

“Why?”

“Because the wing’s shape keeps the pressure below it higher than above it.”

“Why is it higher?”

The conversation went on for ages until eventually my father just laughed and said, “you’ve got really good at ‘why?’ questions, haven’t you?”

If I didn’t answer, “why do you say that?”, I wish I had.

Now it’s Matilda who, at three and a half, has become a dab hand at ‘why?’ questions. That was clear when I took her for a walk in her pram despite her having made it perfectly plain, so plain that no one within half a kilometre’s range could possibly be in any doubt about the matter – she has excellent lungs – that she didn’t want to go.

The Spanish are good at being discreet, but unfortunately the way they were looking away from the grandfather with the wailing child made it so clear they felt discretion necessary, that it did nothing to make me more comfortable. 

“I want my Mummy,” Matilda informed me when she decided to switch from inarticulate wailing to a more articulate variety.

“I’m afraid she’s away.”

“Why?”

“Because she had to go on a trip for work.”

“Why does she have to work?”

“Because if your Mummy and Daddy don’t work, there won’t be enough money for you to have a nice home, enough food and the toys you want.”

“Why?”

I was clearly being driven down the same endless path as I’d once forced my father to take. I tried to change the subject.

“Anyway, we’re having a lovely walk. Look at the colour of the sunset. Look at all the lovely trees.”

“I don’t want a walk.”

I had a flash of inspiration. A rational conversation based on interchanges of ‘why?’ questions and ‘because’ answers wasn’t, it was becoming clear, going to get me anywhere. So I decided this was the time to present her with a simple statement of fact, the kind that allows of no alternative.

“Well, we’re on a walk and that’s all there is to it,” I assured her in what I hoped was a tone of utter finality.

To my astonishment this was greeted with a moment of silence. And a sudden transformation of mood. She sat up and looked at where we were and where we were going.

“Why have you turned around?” she asked. But in a completely different tone, one of interest and, potentially, even pleasure, rather than wailing complaint. She even had the beginnings of a smile.

“Because I thought it would be fun to go down to the backstreets to head back home, rather than just go the same way we came out.”

“But this isn’t the way home.”

“It’s a different way. Look, you can see the houses of the village, and your home is behind them.” 

To match deeds to words, I turned the pram around so that she could see the direction I was pointing. To my immense satisfaction she looked, nodded and seemed satisfied. The smile was no longer just a beginning.

The crying had gone on for nearly quarter of an hour. But the walk lasted an hour and for the rest of it, Matilda was charm itself. Smiling, jokey (she’d lower the shade on her blind and then raise it again in a peekaboo game), simply fun. We talked about the wonderful houses we were going past, the fine trees, the herd of sheep. No subject was too trivial or too complex. And there was no lack of subjects.

Matilda playing with the shade on her pram

It was an immensely satisfying experience. And deeply instructive. It taught me something I already knew about adults. Reasoning may get you nowhere, but a truth that can’t be changed is likely to gain acceptance, or at least resignation. Once resigned, a person is much more amenable to moving on and finding different pleasures, to replace the ones they were previously so upset about missing.

It seems the same applies to kids.

And what about Elliott? 

He too is making fine linguistic progress as he approaches his second birthday. One important breakthrough has been his mastery of the word ‘no’ and another his skilful deployment of ‘and me?’.

‘No’ can get awkward. Standing on a pavement with him one day, with only uphill or down as available directions, I found him answering ‘no’ to both questions “shall we go this way?” followed by “shall we go the other way, then?”. That, I suppose logically, left us rather stuck and going nowhere at all for a while. Fortunately, he made up his mind without further consultation and simply started walking in one of the directions while I, as is often the case when walking with him, was reduced to merely following in his wake. 

It was interesting that the final decision was wordless. I think I’m alone in persisting in the belief that he’s a strong silent type, but every now and then he provides me with powerful confirmation of that judgement.

‘And me?’ is proving immensely useful. Matilda gets something desirable. “And me?” says Elliott and, boy, there’s no way I can resist giving him the same.

That proved a problem when I only discovered, after I’d given Matilda the strawberry yoghurt she’d asked for, that it was the last. That led to an outbreak of strong-but-not-silent-type behaviour. Fortunately, some yoghurt mixed with blueberries helped calm the storm. 

Talking about calm, we had an excellent dose of that restful quality when I took him out for a ride on his fine, plastic, foot-powered motorbike. For the first twenty-five minutes he said not a word. But whenever I called out to him with an instruction – “stop there, Elliott”, “let’s go this way”, or “wait for me at the kerb” – he’d turn and look at me with wide eyes (and he's really good at opening his eyes wide) before quietly doing as I asked without a word of complaint.

Elliott: a daredevil but disciplined biker

Even for the last five minutes, when he started talking again, it was sounds of satisfaction and the occasional ‘OK’, the positive alternative to the ‘No’ he has already mastered so entirely. Overall, it was pleasantly easy to be out with him and unexpectedly quiet. 

Strong, silent type, you see.

Now he just has to learn to stop throwing his plate, strongly and silently, on the floor after he’s eaten as much of its contents as he wants. Because I’m tired of clearing it up. Something I do strongly but, I can assure you, not at all silently.

Oh, and there’s one more instance of his linguistic mastery which is worth recording, though it may be apocryphal. Apparently, the night his mother Sheena returned from a business trip – helping his dad, Nicky, while she was away was my main reason for being there – he told her twice, as soon as he was happily ensconced next to her in bed (an exceptional privilege these days that he’s learned to sleep in his own cot), “Mummy, don’t do that”.

Or at least that’s what she thought he said. She now wonders whether it’s a false memory because he hasn’t said it since. But I think this happens with kids: they come out with something once and then not again for ages, but not because they can’t, only because there’s no need while the same circumstances don’t arise.

After all, here was a strong silent type snuggling down comfortably next to his mum. Now he just wants to get to sleep. How irritating if she makes a fuss of him and keeps him awake. What would you expect him to say, other than “Mummy, don’t do that”? But why would he say it again later?

OK, so the concrete slope was built to skate down
But, hey, what’s to stop daredevils using it as a slide?