The secret lives of three year olds.

Servant.

There are glorious ways to wake up on a Monday, and there are less glorious ways. Jesus rode into Jerusalem on a donkey, and - and I am making no comparison to the great figure, simply circumstances - I fished a tiny LEGO piece out of the toilet.

A toilet that was…not clean. Or empty.

This was the second time in a month that I have done so. It is not a noble task.

It is simply one that needed to be done, and I did it. I do not think this a successfully-completed task that will ever bear relevance to any numbers on my social security statement.

Witnessed : how to help someone preserve their dignity.

”Mommy, you tooted!” chanted the three-year old at the library.

The young mother smiled nervously and tried to distract her daughter. “Let’s find some books, okay?” she sing-songed rapidly.

The girl danced out of reach and remained undeterred. “You tooted, Mommy! Why did you toot, it smells gross!”

Mom, grim-smile-faced, tried and failed spectacularly to gracefully, casually catch her daughter lovingly and finally gave up, leaping to grab and stage whisper her out of the children’s area, taking themselves and their varying aromas from the vicinity.

And where was I? Oh, I was close by, discreetly smirking with my two young boys and arrogant in the knowledge that I would never allow that to happen…

Albrecht Durrer (a conversation about chickens).

“What are you drawing?” The father asked the three-year old.

(I am approximating the age; who knows exactly how old the child was)

”I’m drawing a man, and some people, and a penis.” the boy replied, scribbling away with a black G2 medium point gel pen.

”Pretty sure,” the man said, his rugged beard trying hard to hold in a smirk, “pretty sure your mom was just talking to you last night about perhaps not including detailed anatomy on your drawings that you share with others. I’m referring to penises in particular.”

”Oh,” the boy explained, furiously scrawling away. “Mama doesn’t want me drawing a penis. But I’m not drawing a man and a penis.”

”Hmm,” the middle-aged man with gentle cheekbones said, “what are you drawing then?”

”I’m drawing,” the boy said, “a man and a chicken.”

”And what is that?” the father asked, gesturing elegantly with a well-manicured yet powerful finger.

“That,” the boy said confidently, “is the chicken’s penis.” He hastened to clarify. “It’s not the man’s penis. Mama wants me to draw it later. I’ll draw it later.”

“That,” the dad replied, “is a detailed and lovely piece of art, and I have a feeling your mother will smile big when she sees it.”

”Mama will like it,” the boy agrees. “I believe she will actually like the chicken.”

The winner takes most of it, unless the loser steals it all.

”Do you like this song by Abba?” I asked as we drove through a city.

“I do like this song,” he replied in a confident three-year old tone. “It’s not Abba.”

”It is Abba,” I said. “I assure you it is Abba.”

“Actually it’s not Abba,” he said harshly. “It’s not Abba.”

”It is Abba,” I said brusquely.

”It’s Abba.” he said confidently. “Actually it’s Abba.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying,” I sighed as the song ended, and I felt that familiar feeling of being right yet having been completely out-maneuvered.

This is one reason why this school is a big part of our lives.

For four-and-a-half years, we have been driving an hour-and-a-half out of district two days a week to be part of a multigenerational school. Known as an ALE (alternative learning environment), it’s an accredited public school that has a variety of options for families like us: homeschoolers who want certain additional classes, curriculum, and/or structure. It’s very flexible and very accommodating for families…in fact, the expectation is that if you’re a part of it, that you are your child’s first teacher and you are expected to be involved and present, throughout classes on campus, for a minimum number of hours a month. However, parents are welcome and encouraged to attend up to 100% of whatever classes their child or children are taking. It is an incredible model that is ambitious and requires commitment and vision from all involved. It’s not for everyone. But it’s been wonderful for us. Here’s a tiny part of a big reason:

We walk in. When I say “we walk in,” I mean: “I walk in with our two youngest boys.” Our two oldest, the ones who actually attend class as enrolled students, have already raced in. So I am entering with a four-month old and a three-year old. Because where one goes, we all go. Our three-year old loves going; it is his school too, and he is a familiar face. That might be a dramatic understatement.

So we walk in. A few staff greet me with smiles or hellos. Three staff get out of their chairs, from behind their desks, to come greet The Boy. The three-year old. They converse about rocks and snow and such before fist-bumping. We continue toward the classroom…

…and run into our daughter’s main teacher there in the hallway. She stops to greet The Boy by name and inquire about his puzzle activities; she knows he is severely into them.

…we finally make it to the nine-year old’s classroom, where we help out for awhile as students assemble different permutations of electrical circuits. The infant needs to eat partway through so I try feeding him puréed sweet potatoes but he’s not excited and just wants mom’s milk that I have out in the hallway. Being four months old, he gets impatient quickly and starts crying. Mrs. R doesn’t bat an eyelid as I scurry him out…

…he’s still crying as I fumble him under one arm and try to one-hand pour milk from a warmed-up thermos to a bottle. Another teacher from a different class, Mrs. P, is working at a stand-up counter in the hallway. I don’t hesitate:

”Would you mind holding him for a minute?” I ask, and she walks over with a gigantic smile and holds a fussy baby while I get his milk ready.

Then we have a lovely conversation about food, sustainable practices, and early childhood development for ten minutes.

Next class, different teacher. Our daughter wraps up a group presentation on the use of ethos, pathos, and logos in the context of persuasive writing, and Mrs. M hands out a packet of review material, making sure to include some paper materials for our three-year old. Because, as I said, he considers himself a part of every class we’re in.

“Can I get a book?” he says as we sit in the classroom and he does a puzzle.

“Sure,” I say. “One at a time.”

I watch him strut out the classroom door, down the hallway, around the corner, out of sight, reappearing a minute or two later with …a book.

He reads it. Then looks at me, slide-falls out of his chair, and heads out to swap it for a different book.

This process is repeated a half dozen times throughout class and is interrupted only by a 10-minute detour to visit the office of Mrs. V, a very busy administration staff who always finds time for him. He hangs out with her, looking through stickers and discussing who knows what, and then I go to rescue her and bring him back to class…

…eventually our school there is over and classrooms spill out and a group of 13-year olds from our daughter’s class mob The Boy and avail him of many questions and affections, and the third and fourth grade cohorts of our sons also fall upon the three-year old with great enthusiasm and engage in chitter chatter, and we head out and there are goodbyes by name and cheerful waves and…we shall repeat the process later this week.

To be part of something and to feel welcome and wanted. That is a gift.

I am grateful.