The question of normalcy
I noticed a lot of first-time mothers, myself included, seem to ask the same question over and over again when it comes to their child's behavior. Is that normal?
During this vacation I asked myself that question several times.
I knew Hendrick really liked cars. In fact, "car" was one of the first words in his vocabulary. Anything with wheels was a car to him. Garbage truck. Bicycle. Tricycle. Wheelchair. Gurney. IV holder. (We've spent a lot of time visiting my father in the hospital.)
And during last week's visit to my in-laws, who live in an adult community on Florida's West Coast, Hendrick added "golf cart" to the all-inclusive category of "car."
One proud golf cart owner who saw Hendrick ogling his ride took my boy for a spin through the streets of Terra Siesta. Hendrick was hooked.
Our Uncle Jack, who also lives in the development, found Hendrick's fascination so amusing he loaned his cart to my husband for the weekend. You should have seen my boy seated between his dad's legs, Hendrick's little hands gripping the wheel and eyes watching everything but the road. It was pure bliss.
Until it was time to go inside.
He would pitch a fit. Scream and cry. Drag each relative, one by one, by his or her finger to the door. He knew the only thing that kept him from that golf cart - and the open road - was a doorknob he couldn't reach.
My husband took Hendrick for a few more rides over the weekend and we all laughed as he kicked the tires and circled around his so-called car and pointed to the lights.
The intensity of his interest and his ability to focus on one thing for so long seem impossible for someone so young.
So I asked my mother, "Is this normal?"
"I've never seen anything like him," she replied, shaking her head in disbelief.
Maybe we all say that kind of stuff about our own kids and grandkids. We all want our kids to be special, but we also let our minds wonder if our kids are highly intelligent or showing signs of obsession.
Maybe some things we really don't want to know just yet.
Hendrick's behavior got a little stranger on Monday, when a man in my mother's complex back on the East Coast started talking to us in the parking lot. The man was standing next to the open driver's side door of his Cadillac and Hendrick climbed in.
I gasped, but the man, an older person who was getting a kick out of this kid, said let him go. The man delighted in watching Hendrick grip the wheel and laughed heartily when my boy reached out his hand and grunted for the keys.
My eyes almost popped out of my head. Was my 17-month-old boy really asking for the keys to a car?
"C'mon, Hendrick," I said. "Let's go."
Later that evening I took him for a spin in his little plastic car that my mother bought him in a local consignment shop, a blue and red jalopy that only moved when I pulled the string that someone attached to the bottom.
My boy looked so beautiful as we cruised through my mother's development under the setting sun and swaying palm trees. He looked so sweet and small and happy in his little car that stopped when his feet hit the ground.
That, to me, felt normal.
During this vacation I asked myself that question several times.
I knew Hendrick really liked cars. In fact, "car" was one of the first words in his vocabulary. Anything with wheels was a car to him. Garbage truck. Bicycle. Tricycle. Wheelchair. Gurney. IV holder. (We've spent a lot of time visiting my father in the hospital.)
And during last week's visit to my in-laws, who live in an adult community on Florida's West Coast, Hendrick added "golf cart" to the all-inclusive category of "car."
One proud golf cart owner who saw Hendrick ogling his ride took my boy for a spin through the streets of Terra Siesta. Hendrick was hooked.
Our Uncle Jack, who also lives in the development, found Hendrick's fascination so amusing he loaned his cart to my husband for the weekend. You should have seen my boy seated between his dad's legs, Hendrick's little hands gripping the wheel and eyes watching everything but the road. It was pure bliss.
Until it was time to go inside.
He would pitch a fit. Scream and cry. Drag each relative, one by one, by his or her finger to the door. He knew the only thing that kept him from that golf cart - and the open road - was a doorknob he couldn't reach.
My husband took Hendrick for a few more rides over the weekend and we all laughed as he kicked the tires and circled around his so-called car and pointed to the lights.
The intensity of his interest and his ability to focus on one thing for so long seem impossible for someone so young.
So I asked my mother, "Is this normal?"
"I've never seen anything like him," she replied, shaking her head in disbelief.
Maybe we all say that kind of stuff about our own kids and grandkids. We all want our kids to be special, but we also let our minds wonder if our kids are highly intelligent or showing signs of obsession.
Maybe some things we really don't want to know just yet.
Hendrick's behavior got a little stranger on Monday, when a man in my mother's complex back on the East Coast started talking to us in the parking lot. The man was standing next to the open driver's side door of his Cadillac and Hendrick climbed in.
I gasped, but the man, an older person who was getting a kick out of this kid, said let him go. The man delighted in watching Hendrick grip the wheel and laughed heartily when my boy reached out his hand and grunted for the keys.
My eyes almost popped out of my head. Was my 17-month-old boy really asking for the keys to a car?
"C'mon, Hendrick," I said. "Let's go."
Later that evening I took him for a spin in his little plastic car that my mother bought him in a local consignment shop, a blue and red jalopy that only moved when I pulled the string that someone attached to the bottom.
My boy looked so beautiful as we cruised through my mother's development under the setting sun and swaying palm trees. He looked so sweet and small and happy in his little car that stopped when his feet hit the ground.
That, to me, felt normal.
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