I can love you, but not until the end of time (dialogues with a four-year old).

Beautiful in the present, just not, you know…forever.

So, remind me what we’re doing?
I asked, as we sat in his outdoor kitchen.

Four-year old boy arranging spring flowers in a glass jar for display

We are making this rock look beautiful,
he said,
vigorously drawing a fat blunt of chalk across a midsized fat metamorphic rock with plaits of moss sprouting from its vintage crevasses.

Cool,
I said, grabbing a stick.
I’ll paint some blue on this side of it.

He stopped abruptly and looked at me suspiciously:

That’s not blue,
he said.
It’s light green.

Sorry.
I said.
I’m a little colorblind.

He shook his head dismissively, and I felt (again) like the dad whose superhero-loving child has just discovered their father is not Batman.

We drew in quiet for a few milliseconds and made all parts of the rock look pretty.

Supposed to be rain coming in soon.
I said.
You okay with the rain washing all the chalk off this rock?

Yeah.
he said.
It just needs to be pretty right now.

You’re a pretty neat person.
I said.
Question:

What is it?
he said.

Would it be cool,
I said, asking the same question I’ve asked our other children at many points:
would it be cool if we stayed buddies for life?

For life?
he paused; looking up at me with a glint.

Not for all of life,
he continued.
I don’t care for you enough to be buddies for all of life.

Okay,
I said, processing the honest response to the good faith question I had asked.
Well…umm…

I struggled to figure where to go next with my words, but he saved me -

- but,
he said,
I will be buddies for life with Mama.

I thought about this, and realized there was only a single decent course of action for the long-term.

You know,
I said,
Mama’s a pretty good buddy for life to have. Good call.

We kept drawing on the beautiful rock, but seriously, the rain is coming in. But also seriously, it is pretty today and tonight, and it’ll be a different kind of beautiful after the rain washes everything away.

Skunkpig.

That tree is very beautiful,
he said,
pointing to a blossoming apple tree as we walked down a wooded footpath.

I agree,
I said.
And guess what : you are beautiful too.

He didn’t break stride as we held hands, but he wasted no time in responding in cadence with our steps:

Please don’t call me that.
he said.

Really?
I said.
What would you prefer I say? Handsome? Pretty?

None.
he said.
I was just saying the flowers on the tree were beautiful.

Okay, I said,
persisting.
What is something thoughtful I could say to you that you would be okay with?

He thought for a long period of time that lasted almost 15 steps. Finally, he arrived at an acceptable response.

You can call me,
he said, pivoting to square up with me:
You can call me…Chickenhead.

Sometimes,
I said.
it’s easy to forget you’re four. And I’m glad you’re four. You know that, Chickenhead? I’m glad you’re four.

He said nothing, but couldn’t fight down a grin, and turned to run away.

I let him run, even though I could have successfully chased him down. Because I’m big and he’s little; I’m 44 and he’s four; I’m super-super fast and he’s only super-fast.

You run,
I muttered.
You run, you beautiful little chickenhead.