Can ya dig it?

Elliott is obsessed with trucks.

There, I said it. My raised-by-liberal-arts-nutty-crunchy-uncalloused-handed parents has got it bad for anything that digs, mixes, dumps, chugs, hauls, or motors. Back in my knee-jerk idealist days (say, about 18 months ago), I would have fought to the death anyone who dared suggest that there's something genetic that makes boys go loco for locomotives. Now, I just take for granted that must be part of the Human Genome for approximately 50 percent of the world's population, because this obsession must be hard-wired.

How can I possibly forgive myself for espousing such blatantly rigid gender stereotypes? Simple. Ken and I couldn't care less about trucks. We're more the animal-noise type of parents. And while Elliott has a decent repertoire of quacks and snorts, his truck vocabulary is truly impressive. Elliott says, maybe, 40 words. Among them are dig, dump, wheel, mix, rock, hay, tractor, plow, trash, choo-choo, truck, car, bus, taxi, and van. And he makes one mean firetruck noise.

(Here's Elliott announcing that he's just spied a TRUCK!)

So, today Elliott and I sally forth on another great truck hunt. It's what we do here in the urban jungle. I get outside, he sees some trucks, we both survive another day of winter in New England. I knew where we were headed: there's an old, run-down brick elementary school (that borders the huge town cemetery) that's being converted into condos that start at $500k. Egads. Anyway, they've had an impressive collection of diggers, dumpers, mixers, etc. for the past couple of weeks. Plus, if I time it right, I can catch either the Downeaster train or the commuter rail. Big stuff for the Baby Bug.

We set off as usual, took a left and started to stroll on past the cemetery toward our Holy Grail, when all of a sudden, Elliott starts shrieking, DIG! DIG! DIG!

"Yes, my dear, we're going to see diggers," I said absent-mindedly.

"DIG! DIG! DIG!! DUMP-DUMP!"

I look over in the direction Elliott is frantically waving. There, in the cemetery, right in the front, is a little tiny backhoe and a pick-up-truck-sized dumper, working away digging a new grave.

I stood there for a moment, trying to figure out what to do. I mean, I've taken Elliott for walks in the cemetery plenty of times. It's quiet, peaceful, and blessedly free from the damn traffic that plagues this place. But, somehow, this seemed different. Creepy.

"DIG, MAMA!"

I looked into his pleading blue eyes and relented. We went in and sat on a little stone bench not far from the action and watched. Elliott was transfixed, watching the little digger scoop up the dirt and transfer it into the dump truck. At one point, one of the workers looked over at me and sort of shook his head, as if to ask, "Ma, what are you, nuts? Don't you people have a playdate or Gymboree or Itsy Bitsy Yoga or something wholesome and appropriate to get to?"

I just shrugged my shoulders and smiled. Watching the grave diggers was weird, yes, and I probably won't be able to get away with giving the boy that particular kind of truck fix for much longer, but it did the trick for today.

Nieka

Comments

[Sue]

Elliott is adorable. What big blue eyes!! I am so enjoying reading about your adventures.

[Angie]

Nieka,
As another liberal arts earthy crunchy mama, I hear you. Peter was the same way at Elliott's age: trucks, diggers, trains all.the.time. It's hardwired. It's gotta be.

[Meg]

Those eyes are so beautiful...much like his Mothers.