My son’s almost two now, and since my husband and I are teachers, we feel this pressure to be vigilant about teaching him the things he should know. Nothing crazy—just his letters and numbers and the basic principles of string theory—but Colin stubbornly ignores some of our finer lessons.
Colin loves Thomas trains. What boy doesn’t? Who knew that drawing faces on trains, writing a few bad books and producing worse television shows would create a billion dollar business? I thought I’d use the trains as vehicles to teach him something. They’re each a different color, and all of them are assigned a different number, so it seemed like it’d be an easy lesson.
Colin completely ignores all talk of colors and numbers, however, and chooses instead to see the trains as a study in obsolete British names. I point to the trains and say, “Blue, four. Green, six.” Colin points to them and says, “Wilbert. Percy.”
Colin is also very interested in cars. For the past six months, he’s studied car symbols. Whenever we’re out, he points to each car we pass and asks me to identify it and then repeats the name over and over, committing it to memory. “Ford. Ford. Ford.” He reads books on the subject, combs websites, pores over blogs, and creates car symbol flashcards for himself. All of this studying he does in private.
Now when we go out on play dates with little toddler girls, he breaks out his genius boy routine. He struts down the street, points to each parked car and says coolly, “Toyota. Audi. Honda.” My friends think he’s the smartest boy ever, and in response, Colin blows on his little nails and buffs them on his Thomas the train shirt, basking in his genius. OK, I bask too.
But Colin never mentions his six months of secret study. Two years old and he already has a little routine to impress the girls! And he definitely doesn’t mention the time I’ve spent trying to teach him his letters and numbers, while, for all of our efforts, he’s learned to identify a Honda and Wilbert the train. (Although the symbol for Honda is an “H.” Does that count?)
But here’s the good news! When I thought all Colin was learning were silly car symbols, he was actually processing real life lessons. He likes to point to planes, cars, or any vehicle and say “man” to indicate that a man drives it. The other day, though, he surprised me by pointing to one of the new bugs and saying, “Volkswagon. Bug. Woman.”
And I said, “Absolutely! That’s my boy, breaking out those gender stereotypes!” And to think I thought Colin’s passion for vehicle symbology was useless!
I was congratulating myself on having successfully taught my son the finer points of gender profiling when he followed up his bug insight by pointing to a Miata and saying, “Mazda. Man.” And I had to tell him no—not unless it’s a very self-assured or clueless man. You can imagine my distress. We had to start over from the beginning.
Still, I have to be proud of Colin. After all, he’s mastered outdated British names, car symbols, effective flirting routines, and gender stereotypes (almost—I hate to count that one too early). That’s my boy. Glad my teaching degree is coming in handy.
Colin loves Thomas trains. What boy doesn’t? Who knew that drawing faces on trains, writing a few bad books and producing worse television shows would create a billion dollar business? I thought I’d use the trains as vehicles to teach him something. They’re each a different color, and all of them are assigned a different number, so it seemed like it’d be an easy lesson.
Colin completely ignores all talk of colors and numbers, however, and chooses instead to see the trains as a study in obsolete British names. I point to the trains and say, “Blue, four. Green, six.” Colin points to them and says, “Wilbert. Percy.”
Colin is also very interested in cars. For the past six months, he’s studied car symbols. Whenever we’re out, he points to each car we pass and asks me to identify it and then repeats the name over and over, committing it to memory. “Ford. Ford. Ford.” He reads books on the subject, combs websites, pores over blogs, and creates car symbol flashcards for himself. All of this studying he does in private.
Now when we go out on play dates with little toddler girls, he breaks out his genius boy routine. He struts down the street, points to each parked car and says coolly, “Toyota. Audi. Honda.” My friends think he’s the smartest boy ever, and in response, Colin blows on his little nails and buffs them on his Thomas the train shirt, basking in his genius. OK, I bask too.
But Colin never mentions his six months of secret study. Two years old and he already has a little routine to impress the girls! And he definitely doesn’t mention the time I’ve spent trying to teach him his letters and numbers, while, for all of our efforts, he’s learned to identify a Honda and Wilbert the train. (Although the symbol for Honda is an “H.” Does that count?)
But here’s the good news! When I thought all Colin was learning were silly car symbols, he was actually processing real life lessons. He likes to point to planes, cars, or any vehicle and say “man” to indicate that a man drives it. The other day, though, he surprised me by pointing to one of the new bugs and saying, “Volkswagon. Bug. Woman.”
And I said, “Absolutely! That’s my boy, breaking out those gender stereotypes!” And to think I thought Colin’s passion for vehicle symbology was useless!
I was congratulating myself on having successfully taught my son the finer points of gender profiling when he followed up his bug insight by pointing to a Miata and saying, “Mazda. Man.” And I had to tell him no—not unless it’s a very self-assured or clueless man. You can imagine my distress. We had to start over from the beginning.
Still, I have to be proud of Colin. After all, he’s mastered outdated British names, car symbols, effective flirting routines, and gender stereotypes (almost—I hate to count that one too early). That’s my boy. Glad my teaching degree is coming in handy.
