Scene: the kitchen in the Harriet household, shortly after breakfast

AJ: Mommy, I want to tell you about when Uncle G. and I walked to the playground yesterday.

Harriet: You went to the playground? You didn�t tell me that. Was it fun?

AJ: (slightly irritated at Harriet�s failure to understand what�s important in the story) Yes. But when we were walking there, a picture suddenly formed in my head. I think my brain put it there. And then when we walked it got farther and farther away.

Harriet: What was it a picture of?

AJ: I don�t want to tell you.

* * * * *

The machinations of AJ�s mind are becoming more and more a mystery these days. Suddenly he�s fascinated by secrets, choosing to make special requests only by whispering in my ear (requests for hot chocolate, mini golf outings and trips to the toy store are all made in this manner). Until recently, when AJ said �I don�t want to tell you,� I knew that it always meant he didn�t quite remember. And usually the information would come out a day or two later when he�d had a chance to figure it out. But lately, he seems to be trying so hard to be bigger. He covers his face with shaving cream and shaves it off with a bladeless razor while watching his dad�s face in the mirror. He says things like �a picture suddenly formed in my head� and sometimes he doesn�t want to tell me everything.

* * * * *

AJ�s preschool class is talking about homes and families this week. Later this week he has to bring in a family photo. In the process of trying to find one, he came across a small photo album my mom and I made for him when he was a baby with pictures of family members. His favorite picture, however, is the last one � a picture of Mr. and Mrs. Stein curled up next to each other on my old futon three apartments ago � a ball of black and grey fur. He carried it around with him all morning yesterday and insisted on bringing it to school to show his teachers and his friend N.

He also had been instructed to bring his favorite stuffed animal to school, and so Rub-a-tubby the fish was carefully placed in his backpack with his head peeking out just so (this took eons to arrange to his satisfaction). When he got to school, he carefully removed Rub-a-tubby, without releasing his grip on his photo album and carried them to his place on the carpet. AJ�s friend N. arrived a bit late and asked AJ to watch his stuffed animal � a large fuzzy giraffe � while he washed his hands (a required part of the preschool morning routine). AJ took his job very seriously and sat down on the rug next to the giraffe, keeping a close watch on him, his attention veering away for only a moment to proudly tell his teacher that he was �babysitting.�

* * * * *

The tantrum started when we left the barber shop. AJ was sporting a new haircut with the fringe in front gelled up so he looked like a miniature �50s tough. The barber shop, which usually gives him his pick of lollipops from the glass jar by the cash register, was out of lollipops today. I offered to take AJ next door to the market to buy him a lollipop instead, but for some reason, that was not a fair substitute. AJ began to cry. Then he began to scream and hit me hard. Afraid he�d lash out and run across the parking lot, I picked him up. He screamed louder, pounding his fists on my back and kicking my thighs with the toes of his shoes with the baseball stitching. He knew what it meant. � no mini golf with dad this afternoon. No amount of pleas whispered in my ear would change things.

* * * * *

Scene: AJ�s bedroom, shades closed, naptime.

AJ: Could we talk about how I behaved this morning?
Harriet: What do you want to tell me?
AJ: I just couldn�t control myself. I didn�t want to yell, but something just made me.
Harriet: I know. And it�s okay to feel mad. But we need to help you figure out another way to react when you feel mad.
AJ: I know. Sometimes I just wish I were still a baby.
Harriet: Why?
AJ: Because I liked it. Would you sing my favorite lullaby? (this is The Coventry Carol�.�Lullay thou little tiny child��)
Harriet: You bet. Climb into my lap.

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