Lollipop

My father has always been a cautious parent. His constant admonitions to be careful have had a big effect on me, and now I am cautious as well -- although perhaps his lessons had little to do with it, and they wouldn't have stuck if I was less inherently cautious. Isaac is also a cautious child, so some of it has got to be hereditary -- temperament rather than teaching, nature rather than nurture.

What kind of life lessons do you remember your parents teaching you? I remember my mother telling me most frequently about the importance of being honest. She also covered practical interpersonal skills, including "They can only tease you if you let them" and "Hitting never helps." (And she told me that every woman should own a pair of red shoes, which I do.)

My father may have tried to teach me about morality as well, but those aren't the lessons I remember. I do recall distinctly, however, that he told me not to carry a pencil in my back pocket with the point sticking up, because if I fell down, it could puncture my kidney. He told me to check behind me before leaning over a drinking fountain, because if someone bumped me from behind, I could chip my tooth. And he told me never to run with anything in my mouth, because if I tripped and fell, it could be forced down my throat and I could choke.

So the other day Isaac was eating a lollipop. And running.

Let's back up a bit: when, about four months ago, I learned that Isaac had eaten his very first Tootsie Pop, I didn't approve at all -- a lollipop seemed like a choking hazard on a stick, completely inappropriate for a three-year-old. However, Isaac had gotten it after he had accompanied Craig to the barber, and I hadn't been there to intervene. Eventually, after making sure that Craig always supervised the eating of a lollipop and would never, say, put Isaac in his carseat to silently choke on it as they drove home, I relaxed. I also had the opportunity to watch Isaac eat a lollipop, and it turns out that he isn't the kind of kid who bites the entire piece of candy loose from the stick, so he's unlikely to actually choke on it. Even when he gets to the candy at the center of a Tootsie Pop, he mostly continues to lick it, rather than biting it off.

So I saw Isaac running with his Tootsie Pop, and I opened my mouth to make a remark. Then I paused. What I was about to say was so astoundingly identical to what my father would have said -- and no doubt did say -- that I was too surprised to speak.

Did I want to be the over-cautious spoilsport?

No. So instead I said, "Your Opa would tell you not to run with a lollipop in your mouth. Opa would be afraid you would trip and choke on it."

Isaac immediately pulled the lollipop out of his mouth and stopped moving. Then he returned it to his mouth and began shuffling cautiously, barely moving his feet or lifting them off the ground, moving in exaggerated slow motion. It was funny -- except he wasn't making a joke or trying to prove a point. He was really trying to do the safe thing.

"You can move faster than that," I said. "You can walk! Just don't run."

Isaac sped up slightly, but he was still moving like a 100-year-old man who had lost his walker. Despite my attempt to deflect the blame onto my father, I was afraid I had overdone the warning. With Isaac's cautious temperament, would he ever be able to enjoy a lollipop again? Would Isaac remember my words 30 years from now, and blame me for ruining his childish fun?

"Or you can run," I said, "but pull the lollipop out of your mouth first."

Thankfully this struck him as a fun game. For the next few minutes he dashed in and out of the room, running up and down the hall, always coming to a complete halt prior to reinserting the lollipop into his mouth.