Notes From the Field

Thursday. March 1. 2007.
Yesterday's trip to the library proved illuminating (we are regulars nearly every week). Hot competition continues to brew around most popular item, The Train Table - especially coveted among the male toddler/preschooler set. Subject, Y, now 2 1/2, plays there for hours. Fights erupt constantly during the "rush hours," from 10-noon in the morning. Tension mounts as mothers crowd 'round too, anxious to keep the paws of their small monkey-like offspring off the rest of them, and to ensure that wooden things do not get clonked on the heads of their brood.

Yesterday gave rise to a battle. There seemed to be bad blood from the get-go between Y and a bigger, taller, moodier, approximately 3.12-year-old specimen we shall designate as Boy X3. Both cases showed a strong, unyielding preference for the BIG trains, of which there are an extremely short supply. The squall burst forth when, for undetected reasons, X3 suddenly had Y in a headlock. Both were screeching. Mother versions were clucking and pecking.
I watched calmly from my nest until one mother version began fluttering about, gasping, "Who's is he?! Is he yours?!" - duly out of concern for Y, the pounced-upon.

"He's mine!" I chimed, and deftly swept in, assuaging all stormy fears.

"Oh!" were the sighs heard echoing throughout the clan of elders, and then the silent beseeching of why in the world I did not swoop down earlier.

Indeed I felt lame as I said it, knowing how this information would be received - but I still believe that I was right. I explained, with a false puff of lax confidence, "I like to see how they're going to problem-solve...I wanted to see what would happen."

"Hmms" and "Ohs," and nods of dubious agreement followed. I remained for a few more reassuring moments at The Table, then with clandestine adroitness, breezed back to my chair post, about 2 feet away.

It is only fair to record, that some time later, at approximately 1100 hours, when another sturdy young lad was impending Y's compass trek 'round the field, I heard Y assert with full pomp and circumstance, "EXCUSE ME, SIR! EXCUSE ME, SIR! EXCUSE ME!!!" (prounounced, "me me, sir! me me, sir! mee mee!!!")
Close, March 1.