Not Too Early for Three to be a Crowd

Ian's love interest, Rebecca, also has a little friend named Leslie. Leslie and Rebecca are always joined at the hip. Ian is frequently annoyed by this inconvenience. He ruminates on the subject as we walk through the park this morning.

"Mom? Leslie and Rebecca always want to play with dolls. Playing with dolls is boring."

"Well, Ian, they're girls. Girls like dolls."

"Yeah, but why don't they like cars, too?"

"I don't know. Some girls just don't like cars."

Ian is ham-fisting a collection of matchbox cars that he's toting to school.

"Mom, I brought a car for myself and a car for Rebecca. I'm not giving any cars to Leslie because she's mean to me."

"Why is she mean to you?"

"I don't know. She just doesn't play with me so I don't like her."

"Did you think maybe she's jealous because you play sometimes with Rebecca?"

As Ian's hands are occupied, he wipes his nose with the side of his windbreakered sleeve and thinks about this. "No. Why is she jealous?"

"Because Rebecca is her friend, too, and maybe she doesn't like when Rebecca plays with you."

Ian's walk slows. The concept of female jealousy is clearly jolting to him.

"Ian, why don't you play with Leslie today? Maybe it will make her feel better."

"Yeah, but then that will make Rebecca jealous."

The man has a point. I'm encouraged that my son is such a quick learner, but all I can do when I leave him at the door of his classroom is pat him on the head and wish him luck. As I head for the exit, he approaches Rebecca with his stash of cars. She looks unimpressed. I can see Leslie, however, on the other side of the classroom sharpening her daggers...

Hard to Play Hard to Get

Today, Ian was going to see Rebecca again in school after a long, long absence. She went with her family for a week to California. In the middle of the week last week, late in the evening, when the apartment was quiet, I heard Ian's little voice call from his bed:

"Mom?"

I went in, not happy about it, but tried to have an open ear. Ian was curled in the fetal position sucking his thumb, no different than when he was three months old. "What is it, Ian? Why aren't you asleep?"

"Mom?" he said with a slight whimper. "It's taking Rebecca and Rachel [ed note: that would be Rebecca's 7-yr-old sister] a long time to come back from vacation."

Oh, her again. I guess it isn't too early for love to stink. I reassured him that the week would go fast and then he'd see her again.

Last night, in anticipation of the event, he wanted to text her a message on my phone (as if she had a phone number, which she doesn't, but I wouldn't have sent it anyway). The message said: "I love you, Rebecca." Oy vey. Thank God Ian has me to protect his image.

Ian took an inordinate amount of care dressing this morning, choosing a kelly green shirt that made him look especially handsome (according to his mother). When we arrived in the classroom this morning, Rebecca was at a table with a gaggle of other pre-school girls. They were making jewelry out of play dough.

Ian nearly pirouettes past her table, light in his shoes, beaming from every inch of his four-year-old body. "Rebecca!!" he blurts. "You're here!"

The look on Rebecca's face unfortunately foretells a long path ahead of Ian in which he will overplay his hand again and again. I could see it coming. In the midst of rolling out one of her links of plasticine, she looks up at him and literally glares. As if to say, Oh, it's him again. If there weren't witnesses, I might have said something.

But after a moment contemplating her predicament, I couldn't really blame her. Ian flutters around her, asking her what she's doing and how was her vacation, to which she answers with a few grunts. Then Ian dispatches himself to the computer table to play a video game with the boys.

Ian kept a stiff upper lip and pretended not to notice the brush-off (well, more than likely he didn't realize he was getting the brush-off). As I left, I gave him an extra long hug and told him how handsome he was.

But love stinks in that direction, too. I'm already taken.

The Case of the Missing Brown Sandals

Today, it's raining. Ian makes a note of his footwear as we're walking through the park. I also have footwear on my mind because I just bought Ian and Julian each a pair of nice brown, leather sandals when they need to be taken somewhere where "park rat" attire won't cut it. We went to a birthday party last night and I turned the house upside down looking for Ian's, but to no avail. I even emptied corners of their closet that I swore I would only empty in the event of war or an act of God.

"Mom? Ya know what?"

I nod.

"I'm not wearing my boots today so I can't jump in the puddles."

"No, you can't."

"And you know what else, Mom?" I nod again. "You couldn't find my brown sandals yesterday."

Genius. Thanks for the reminder. Ian continues. "You couldn't find them because I hid them in a suitcase so you couldn't put them on me and I could wear my cool sandals."

What?! I'm shaking my head. This, I'm sure, is not the first or last time one of my sons will put something over on me. I'm thunderstruck, however, by his sly creativity, his ability to do it without me ever noticing, and his ability to keep completely mum about it until he is halfway to school the next day and safely out of range of another wardrobe change. His execution of the scheme was flawless and cool-headed. I had to hand it to him.

I look down at him while he spins his yellow umbrella over his shoulder and walks along next to me. He looks gleefully self-satisfied. "Ian, I had no idea you were so sneaky."

He nods in acknowledgement and his tone is slightly sympathetic. "Yeah, Mom. You have to watch out for me."

No doubt. Jean-Paul strikes again.