[Author’s Note #1: Over the past several months, Bo’s enunciation has dramatically improved. He’s still working on some sounds: r, l, ch, j, etc. For ease of reading, however, I’ll no longer transcribe his speech exactly, and will instead render his meaning. (For example, “cah-fuh” will just be “careful”.) From now on, Bo’s speech will just be written as plain English— unless his linguistic corruption adds something to the story.]
[Author’s Note #2: Bo still has a serious issue with pronouns. He present-narrates his actions and expresses his desires as though Taylor or I were the one speaking. I’ve even had someone ask if he has a dissociative disorder. I mean, hopefully not, right?
We’re currently in full-throttle correction mode, but we’re still seeing virtually no results. So if you think it’s annoying to read my constant correction of his pronouns… imagine how annoying it is to deal with it, in real life.]
When I was little, I used to watch an animated film called The Brave Little Toaster. I don’t remember anything about the show except the titular character’s name — which, after a particularly harrowing experience, also became my nickname.
I was four or five — old enough to remember some details of the event. My family was visiting my cousins, who also lived in Colorado Springs at the time. Their home was a two-story with a finished basement, and the basement stairs had a ledge that extended from the main floor to the slanted ceiling of the stairwell.
I’ve never understood the purpose of such ledges. They just seem like structural dust-collectors — or maybe very visible and inconvenient storage, at best. It’s not like the six-inch depth is enough for human occupation — at least, not usually.
That night, however, that ledge became the site of a little girl’s test of courage.
Here’s what happened: my father took my special friend — Baby Doll — and put her at the very end of the ledge, about twelve feet away from “safety”. He told me that, if I wanted her back, I had to go get her myself.
I don’t actually remember why he did it. Maybe I had misbehaved, or maybe he was just showing off — confident that I would eventually conquer my fears and prove him right. [Note: These reasons are not mutually exclusive and seem equally likely to me.]
Whatever the reason was, there we all were: me, crying; my father, assuring me that he’d catch me “on the first bounce”; my mother, trying to talk my dad out of it; and my cousins’ family, watching with interest and horror. (Or, at least, that’s how I remember it all.)
I think it probably took me twenty minutes to creep out that short distance, and half of it was just in getting started. Everyone — but especially my dad — cheered me on the whole time. I triumphantly reached Baby Doll and rescued her from a dusty, storage-y fate. Then, I seem to remember refusing my dad’s arms and insisting instead on crawling back to safety — just to prove that I could. (I guess I’ve always been stubborn.)
My dad rewarded me with high accolades. “You’re my Brave Little Toaster!” he beamed proudly.
And that was his kindest nickname for me, from then on. (Most were much more sarcastic.)
And so, as a child, I was praised as a “Brave Little Toaster” whenever I did something especially brave or hard — conquering another physical challenge, or acing a test, or getting through a difficult social event.
As I got older, though, I gradually stopped hearing “Brave Little Toaster”. Eventually, the expectation was that I would be brave, all the time — because that’s what it means to be an effective adult.
I’d like to think that I met that expectation, to some extent. (After all, it took great bravery — or perhaps great stupidity — to break with my generation and intentionally have a child at twenty-two.) I guess that I’m now trying to be a Brave Big Toaster.
… which means that it’s my turn to raise up the next generation of Little Toasters.
The day was cold — no higher than 40°F, and threatening snow. But, my family tends to do much better in the cold than in the heat, and I always say it’s easier to bring my kids outside in cold weather than in hot. I decided to put my money where my mouth is and take Borealis and Australis to the park.
We bundled up and walked over to the playground in the family housing area of Mines Park. No one else was there — probably on account of the weather — which meant that the kids had the park to themselves. Aza immediately made a beeline for the slides.
Borealis, however, had something else in mind. “You want to climb a tree?”
I replied immediately. “Check your pronouns.”
Bo revised, “I want to climb a tree.”
I glanced at Australis, who was already clambering up the playground. “Ok. Let’s wait for Aza to go down the slide, and then we can go climb a tree. We have to take your sister, too.”
We watched Aza as she approached the tall slide and threw herself down with nary a hesitation.
I turned back to Bo. “Do you remember when you would have waited at the top of that for, like, five minutes?”
I don’t know if he actually remembered, but he answered, “Yeah.”
I grabbed Aza and carried her over to a distinctive willow with a large, horizontal branch. A proliferation of shoots effectively prevented climbing, but I could easily lift the kids up to that branch.
I was actually enthusiastic about Bo’s desire to climb trees. It was an important part of Taylor’s and my childhoods, and we’ve sought to gradually introduce the idea to Bo — and we started him young. In fact, he couldn’t remember this, but he’d actually been up in this same willow, back in 2018.
Even so, Bo dragged his feet in joining us. I hefted my daughter onto the limb, but she made it very clear she wasn’t interested in staying up there. I lowered her gently to the ground. She definitely would’ve just jumped, otherwise.
Then, it was Bo’s turn. “Do you want to go up in the tree?” I asked.
“No!”
I shrugged. “Ok, baby. You don’t have to.”
I started to walk away — back toward the playground, where Aza was already headed — but Bo yelled after me, “You want to climb the tree!”
I turned back around. “Pronouns.”
“I want to climb the tree.”
“Ok. I’m gonna help you get up there.”
I lifted him up, allowed him to stabilize, and then stepped away to pull off my mitten and snap this picture.
I stowed my phone and slipped my mitten back on.
“You want to get down?” Bo peeped.
“Yeah, bud,” I said, forgetting to correct his grammar. I helped him to the ground, and we started back toward the playground.
I figured that was the last I’d hear of it, but Bo immediately suggested, “You want to climb another tree?”
“Pronouns.”
“I want to climb another tree. I want to climb this tree!”
He pointed to a nearby blue spruce. It was very healthy — lots of limbs, lots of needles. In other words, not a good climbing tree.
“I’m sorry, bud, that’s not a good climbing tree. How about this one?” I gestured to another option. “This tree is a willow, just like the last one you climbed. Do you see how it has these big branches and not many little branches in the way? That makes it a better climbing tree.”
I lifted Aza, then Bo, into the saddle of the tree, then snapped a rare pic in which they’re both looking at the camera.
I helped both children down. Aza was clearly unsatisfied with tree climbing. She ran back over to the playground and indicated the baby swing. As I lifted her in, though, Bo asked, “You want to climb another tree?”
I sighed and gave his pronouns a break. “Ok, this is the last tree we’re going to climb. I have to get Aza swinging first.”
She seemed suitably content after a few pushes, so Bo and I trotted over to still another willow. I helped him up, and then he posed for the camera.
It was clear that he was becoming more comfortable with the precariousness of perching in trees. (I mean, that ridiculous smirk speaks volumes.) Once again, I helped him down, and we returned to the playground.
I gave Aza a few good pushes in her swing. She giggled at me and was just generally adorable — not least because she was incapable of serious mischief, contained as she was in the swing.
We rattled around the playground for a little, but Bo’s heart wasn’t in it. He kept returning to the nearest willow, circling it and unsuccessfully attempting a solo ascent. He couldn’t quite reach the lowest handhold, and the thick mittens didn’t help.
His futile efforts pulled at my heartstrings, so I went to kneel beside him after only a few minutes. Bracing one leg, I instructed, “Ok, you can step on my knee, and then you’ll be able to reach the handholds.”
Bo stepped onto my knee, then straightened up and leaned into my arms. “You want me to pick you up?” he whimpered.
“No buddy. You can stand on my knee, but you gotta get into the tree on your own. I can help you find where to put your hands and your feet.”
With that, I guided his right hand to a gnarled knot and helped him grip on, then did the same for one of his feet. He immediately stood up, lost his handhold, and fell into my waiting arms.
“I got you,” I assured him. “Let’s try again. Wait, but first I have push Aza.”
After a quick jaunt to the swings, I returned for round two. This time, I set both his hands before allowing him to search for his own foothold. In doing so, he recognized the necessity of maintaining a good grip on the tree — and he managed those mittens admirably.
But, then he immediately got stuck — two handholds, one foothold, no idea where to go.
“You gotta put your other foot on the tree!” I encouraged.
He ineffectually kicked at the tree, but found no purchase. After a few seconds, he dropped to the ground — barely a foot below — and crumpled into a defeated heap.
He shifted to face me. “I think you’re going to be ok,” he mumbled — parroting what I usually say when he gets “hurt”. [Note: I’m more solicitous when he’s genuinely injured.]
I rubbed his back. It was clear that his pride had suffered the greatest damage. “Yeah buddy, you’re gonna be ok. Do you wanna be all done? We can do the swings with Aza?”
Bo sat up and exclaimed, “No! I think you want to do it again!”
“I —”
“I want to do it again!”
“Ok. We can try again.”
I knelt beside the tree once more, and Bo redoubled his efforts to scale its trunk. As he pulled himself up, I helped him find new handholds — and I also gave him a tiny boost to keep him moving upward. However, the need for that boost increased as he got higher and his form deteriorated. I basically shoved him the final six inches into the tree’s saddle.
“You did it!” Bo exclaimed from his perch.
I snorted. While that exclamation was factually accurate, it wasn’t quite what he meant. “Good job! Ok, we’ll do it one more time, and then it’ll be time for us to go back to the playground.”
This time was even better — I barely had to assist his upward motion. When he got to the top, he scrabbled around and reached out for me.
I took a step back. (But, importantly, stayed close enough to catch him should he jump or fall.) “No, I want you to practice getting down. I’ll hold one of your hands, but you have to get down on your own.”
Bo grasped my outstretched mitten and reluctantly scooted to the edge of the fork. “You want me to help you?”
“No.”
“I want you to help me.”
I chuckled. “Ok, that’s good asking, but still no. If you want to learn how to climb trees, you’ll have to learn how to get down, too.” — which is true. A good dismount is critical to successful climbing.
I watched Bo work up his courage. Finally, he slid down the trunk and, once again, landed in a crumped heap at the base of the tree.
Nevertheless, he was enthusiastic. “Maybe we can do it one more time?”
I glanced over at Aza, whose swing had slowed to an imperceptible sway. “I don’t know, Bo. I gotta go check on Aza first.”
I jogged over to the baby swing and gave Aza a quick peck on the cheek. Cold, but not too cold. “Do you want to get out of the swing?” I asked.
Aza shook her head and scowled, “No.”
However, since she (like many toddlers) employs that answer to mean both “no” and “yes”, I decided to proceed with removal. That is, until she swatted my hand, shrieked loudly, and repeated, “NO!”
“Ok! Ok!” I conceded. “I’ll just push you again!”
Aza: <grunts in triumph>
I shook my head. To think that I ever considered her a compliant child.
I returned to my actually-kind-of-compliant child (which is ironic, because he wasn’t always that way). He waited mostly-patiently by the willow.
“Ok, do you want to climb the tree again?” I asked.
“Yeah!”
And so he did. This time, he needed even less help, and was so proud when he reached the top.
As he made to get out of the tree, I asked, “Do you think you can do it on your own?”
He flashed me a worried look, then steeled his resolve. “I think you can.”
“Pronouns.”
“I can!”
And then he did — sliding down the trunk in a haphazard-yet-still-somewhat-controlled descent.
It was surprisingly hard to let him struggle. I just wanted to swoop in and lower him down safely, but the rational side of my brain insisted that: 1) he was in minimal real danger — relatively close to the ground, and closely attended by me; and 2) kids need to learn how to balance risk and reward. Better that Bo learn how to do that balancing act now, while the stakes are so low. I won’t always be able to fix his problems with a kiss and a snuggle.
After only a few seconds, my son landed — on his feet, this time. I cringed at the maltreatment of his jeans, until I saw the grin on his face. He was so proud to have dismounted on his own, and truly, I was proud of him as well.
“You did it all by yourself!” he exclaimed.
“I —”
“I did it all by myself!”
“Yes, you did! Good job!” I beamed.
And… that was basically the pattern for the next twenty minutes. One more time had quickly turned into as many times as Aza will allow while sufficiently occupied with a barely-pushed swing.
Eventually, though, I had to shut down the party. “Alright buddy, it’s about time for us to go home. Aza is getting pretty bored.”
My daughter had slumped over in her swing — which, once again, was nearly motionless. I trotted over to retrieve her from her holding cell — only to once more receive a swat.
“NO!” she shrieked indignantly.
“Baby! No hitting!” I [ineffectually] commanded. She smacked my hands again.
“Ok, look,” I continued. “I get that you want to stay in the swings, but it’s time for us to go home.”
Aza wailed some more, but I managed to wrestle her out of the swing and into my arms. I nodded toward Bo. “Ok. Let’s walk back.”
I started toward the normal path, only to discover that Bo wasn’t following. He was, instead, heading toward a tree uphill from the playground.
“Buddy,” I warned. “Use your words.”
“You want to climb one more tree?” he asked.
“Um, maybe — wait, that’s not the right way to ask.”
“I want to climb one more tree.”
I glanced down at Aza, who finally seemed content in my embrace. “Ok. Last one.”
Bo and I approached the tree. I circled the trunk and gestured toward the uphill side. “I think you can climb this side on your own.”
Bo shot me another panicked look.
“Or we can just walk home,” I suggested.
“No! You want to climb it!”
“Ok. Then try it right here.”
And so he did. Bo bravely fought his way toward the tree’s saddle — though not all at once. He would make some upward progress, followed by a disheartening setback.
Aza, meanwhile, quickly grew discontent. As Bo continued his struggle, she faux-glowered at me and demanded, “Wahk!” {“Walk!”} Just to prove her point, this was accompanied by a lunge for the ground. I set her down, expecting that she would join Bo’s assault on the tree.
And what an assault it was. I could see the strain in his little body, already tired from so much climbing practice. Even still, I managed to hold back from physically helping. Instead, I encouraged, “You can do it! Keep trying! You’re going to make it!”
Finally — finally — he was there: in the trunk, entirely of his own power.
“Good job! You are so brave and tough!” I praised — and I meant it. It would have been incredibly easy for him to give up or to wear me down by repeatedly asking for help. Instead, he had conquered his fears and achieved his goal. He was proud, and so was I.
He’s my Brave Little Toaster, I realized. I swiped at the tears that instantly sprang to my eyes. But, Bo wouldn’t have gotten the reference, so I kept it to myself. Instead, I murmured, “I guess this is probably how my dad felt.”
And, just then, I noticed a conspicuous absence. “Wait — where’s Aza!?”
Bo slid down the tree trunk as I sidestepped it for a better view. And there she was: fifty yards away, back at the playground.
Apparently, some Little Toasters are just born “brave”. That child is going to be the death of me.