The Toddler Philosopher

Reprinted with permission from Busted Halo.

What's that?

I'm buckling my son into his car seat the other morning when he points to the tool used to scrape snow off the windshield.

"It's an ice scraper, sweetheart."

Why?

"So we can scrape the ice off the windshield."

Why?

"So we can see when we drive."

Why?

"So we don't crash."

Why?

"Because we don't want to die."

Why?

What am I supposed to tell the kid? Because we value our lives? I know what his reply will be: Why? Because they are a gift. Why? Um, because life is sacred. Why?

I like to think I have a good education and am respectably literate on matters of meaning and religion, but my two-year-old son reminds me that my Jesuit liberal arts degree only afforded me three theology and three philosophy classes.

Forget the birthing or child development classes. Parents should get advanced philosophy degrees. As the mother of a curious toddler, I realize I am ever only five whys away from an ontological crisis.

It imbues life with a certain crackling awe. It burns through this cloud created by the frittering details of adulthood. My son is unencumbered with practical concerns. Food is provided, a warm bed. He is bathed, dressed; he doesn't even have to worry about finding a bathroom.

So there is space in his elastic mind to entertain the big questions.

Why do we say good morning to the newsstand clerk?

"Because God is within him too."

Why?

Why would a sharp knife hurt?

"Because the body is frail."

Why?

"Because all things are passing."

Why?

An Uncluttered Gaze
As his interpreter and guide, each day is again an open field for wonder and discovery. At any moment I might be pressed to explain the root value of sharing or the inherent need of the human body for food. I am continually forced to justify my vision of reality. The toddler's uncluttered gaze upon his new world snaps me out of the trodden and typical. It forces spiritual engagement on me like a splash of cold water.

There was a time, maybe in high school, maybe those late wine-fueled nights in college, when the beauty and intensity of life was within arms reach. Don't you remember? You could taste it. You could feel yourself living.

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