Waiting on a response to the dubia

If only children asked questions in the form of dubia: well-worded requests for clarification requiring a “Yes” or “No” in response. “Let your yes be yes and your no be no,” after all. And that’s that. Instead of demanding dissertations on such diverse topics as Why did you forget bread at the grocery store? and Do mama chickens and papa chickens and baby chickens eat gingerbread men?

But even if we went the dubia route, the “yes” or “no” response would set off a Thomistic avalanche. While not (quite) worthy of the Angelic Doctor's time, the breadth and depth of their questions and arguments is exhausting, puzzling, and vexing nonetheless. 

Whether ice cream is breakfast food.

Objection 1: Eggs don’t really sound good to me right now. I’m tired of eggs and toast and I don’t like oatmeal anymore. It’s icky.

Objection 2: If we don’t eat it now then it will melt and that’s wasteful. You always say, “Waste not, want not.” You say that, mom.

Objection 3: Yesterday you said I could have a sweet treat and I didn’t get any ice cream that time and I want it now. Okay? Okay, mom?

On the contrary, for reasons ranging from diabetes to brain-freezes, you may not have ice cream at 6 a.m.

I answered you already.

But that may be a bad example. Many of their questions have considerable depth. I am asked why men are holding hands, why people die, and when my three-year-old will “finally” be able to give birth to a baby of her own.

I’m glad she’s asking me, and not someone else. She looks to me as someone who loves her and cares for her and is the authority in her life. She’s trying to make sense of things and sometimes things just don’t make sense. A toddler can see that.

It has now been more than 100 days since the dubia were made public. There has been no response.

Children want answers immediately. All parents are familiar with the incessant: “Why? Why? Why?” My oldest will say, “Mama, look at me. I asked you a question.” It sends them into overdrive when they are ignored—especially by their parents. And who can blame them? We should be interested in their questions. Who is responsible for addressing their worries and concerns, if not their mother and father?

The tricky thing about giving them a “yes” or "no,” is that things become very, very clear. There is no ambiguity when I say, “No,” to a request to visit the park in pouring rain an hour before dinner. But a non-response, or a “we'll see,” might buy me some time and peace, and the chance that they will forget.

But when I answer them they know where I stand and can react accordingly, with weeping and gnashing of teeth when their park adventure is denied, or with delight on a feast day when they are eating chocolate coins in their pajamas. They want answers.

Frans Francken the Elder, Jesus Among the Doctors, 1587

Each of us had a father and mother, and were once questioning children. Some parents answered more questions than others, some better than others. Some were Catholic, others weren’t. A big part of conversion, and an issue for many (self included) is that of authority, and the papacy. Why do we need a man in Rome telling us what to think and do? But once that starts to make sense (thank you, Devin Rose), it’s obvious that we desperately need authority. No matter our age, as children of God we still seek guidance from those who represent Christ and His Church on earth.

I remember it like it was yesterday. Having desired conversion days before Benedict XVI renounced the papal throne, I was couch-bound with a newborn, following the conclave. The entire process fascinated me. I didn’t know what any of the words meant, who anyone was, or how the process worked. 

But I was riveted as I watched that smoke, trying to guess its color with the aid of the helpful rhyme “white smoke, pope; black smoke, nope.” Eventually the smoke was white. There was a new pope. We had a new pope. For the first time in my life, I had a pope.

After what seemed an interminable wait, the Cardinal Protodeacon appeared on the balcony of St. Peter’s and announced to the enormous crowd gathered there, and those watching and listening all over the world, “Habemus Papam!”

“We have a Father!”

And some of his children have questions.

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Why are we paying to play?

My three-year-old has never been to any form of organized play beyond the occasional visit to the library two blocks away for story time or music time. It lasts 30 minutes and makes me want to run from the building, but she enjoys shaking the tambourine and throwing the scarves into the air. I think this is sufficient exposure to tattooed women talking about sacred spaces for music. I’ve never felt the urge to pay for this experience. If we didn’t have easy and free access to this “class,” I would not be strapping kids in car seats and loading up diapers and snacks to schlep them someplace for the paid privilege of singing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” with hand motions.

But sometimes it seems I’m alone in this. Other moms are willing to spend big money for everything from sign language classes for infants, to language immersion for one-year-olds, to dance, tumbling, soccer, and art classes. Here’s how we handle that: my eldest pushes a button on a rocking horse that plays music and dances till she falls down, making the baby squeal and laugh. Tumbling happens—I’m not sure how to stop it from happening, that’s how regularly it happens. We have balls that can be kicked (not encouraged in the house, but winter in Oregon makes that hard). Art happens on my grocery list, calendar, bills, and books every time someone finds a pen or pencil or stub of crayon. Like the tumbling, we can’t stop the art from happening.

Toddler “art appreciation” class, done in blue ballpoint.

But parents just “want the best” for their kids. Some have hopes of raising professional athletes. Some rail about socialization. But aren’t we raising kids that need to be entertained all the time? My toddler doesn’t—I’m able to wash dishes and do laundry and she just . . . plays, with her brother, with the Tupperware, with her toys. I know, it sounds sad, but she does it, and seems to enjoy it. She’s absorbed in it, laughing, occasionally running up to show me something she’s done or introduce me to her newest baby.

I wanted to be a mom for quite a long time. I never wanted to be a taxi driver or an event planner, which feels like a parenting prerequisite in our culture. Nor did I ever feel compelled to spend hundreds of dollars on colorful plastic that would take over the house and storage spaces like a Toys “R” Us fungal infestation. I wanted to teach children, see them pray, hear what they think about things like daffodils and using “wash mouth” when they are “old.” I thought teaching a child how to think, how to worship, how to be a human being with common sense and grace, seemed amazing and awesome enough.

There’s so much effort spent raising miniature capitalist consumers, which are often just a smaller version of their parents. Children grow up anticipating the rewards that come with a season of T-ball or swim class or sign language. But the rewards for the best things in life are mostly internal, delayed, and may only be received in heaven. No one gives me a t-shirt with my name on it and a trophy followed by a cupcake reception after a season of Cold and Flu. There’s no clapping in the stands when I’ve disciplined a toddler for the ninth time before 8 a.m. without losing my temper. But mothering has a temporal and eternal effect; it’s not just another notch on the parent’s belt, like a child completing a violin solo (and she’s only two!).

Let the kids be kids while the parents are being parents, doing parental things, like making dinner and answering questions, even disciplining. Let the children learn to problem solve and find the time to ask questions. They have the school system waiting for them, to schedule their time, to shift them from activity to activity. Why not let them play in the backyard and discover worms and new plants coming out of the earth and listen to the birds, and maybe have a discussion about the plane they see flying overhead? To a child the ordinary is extraordinary. They don’t need to have their attention diverted from their discoveries—there’s something fascinating in the smallest things for a child.  It’s the parents who train them from a young age to want something more, to need the carrot when they really just need some freedom and time.

Picture of ancient playground (1393 B.C.)

Bring back climbing trees, scraped knees, and homemade dinners. And send the check you’re about to write for that next level of “experiential play” with “various mediums” at the “learning center” to someone with a real need, someone who doesn’t have a place to sleep at night, someone who doesn’t know where their next meal is coming from. And when your toddler is bored, let her fold laundry, stir the soup, and dust the table. That will be a nice break from her “unstructured play” and she might even learn something.

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Photo Source: By G. Brändle, Agroscope (Agroscope Reckenholz-Tänikon) [CC BY 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/3.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

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