Close Encounters Of The Short Kind

If the gods are good (and by “gods,” I mean university administration), by the end of this semester I will have my master’s degree in developmental psychology. Test my knowledge today: give me the name of any celebrity, and I will tell you the names of his or her children. Kate Hudson? Please, you can do better. Ryder -- named after a Black Crowes song. Reese Witherspoon? Two kids, Ava and Deacon. Ricki Lake? Throwing down the gauntlet, eh? Milo. Same as Liv Tyler’s kid. And if you think I looked this all up on people.com, you are so wrong. (Although I’ll admit to checking the spelling on Ricki’s name. I had “Rikki” first.)

So, I procrastinate a bit. Today I abandoned my thesis for a somewhat noble cause. More noble than memorizing Tara Reid’s “True Hollywood Story.” (Tara has no children that I know of, though she has repeatedly proven herself well equipped for feeding.) I took advantage of the pre-apocalyptic January heat and went for a walk. My destination was the gym, where I could kill at least 30 minutes jogging/fact-checking US Weekly. Julia Roberts is expanding Hazel and Finn’s nursery -- be prepared.

When the 4-year-old started running at me, I did what any Piagetian-trained scholar would do. I stepped aside. This one-kid stampede occurred one block away from campus, in full daylight, with an eyewitness parent watching from a nearby porch. I figured if the kid wanted to mug me, she would have chosen a more clandestine set-up. And if she wanted to chat -- say, to quiz me on Vygotskian theory -- she would have approached more calmly, perhaps sneering slightly. Children like to exercise for no reason, right? They also avoid naps. Fools.

But this child charted my movement and changed her course. She halted inches in front of my kneecaps. “Who are you?” she exclaimed. The emphasis was on “are,” as in “What’s your purpose on this planet?” Had she stressed “you,” I probably wouldn’t have gotten so flustered. “Who are you?” is a question posed by big-eyed, fuzzy creatures in storybooks throughout history. It is usually followed by the statement, “You’re not my mother!,” at which point the inquisition stops. “Who are you?” stopped me.

I’m not sure why I didn’t just give my name. It seemed irrelevant, I guess. Maybe I’ve spent too much time in school, and I expect every piece of information to have “background/significance” and “future implications.” I forget that when I was a kid, I wedged a peanut halfway up my nose simply because I could.

At first, I deflected. “What nice pink shoes you have!” I said. My tone was high enough to bust canine eardrums. Parent On The Porch did not look up from her magazine. “And pink socks too! Wow!”

Tell me, Mr. Piaget, if toddlers are egocentric, why don’t they soak up compliments? My three-foot supplicant didn’t so much as smile. “Who are you?” she demanded, toying with my keys.

“I’m...walking.” Well, this was true. It didn’t take an advanced degree to see that I was walking. For my next act of scholastic greatness, I will describe self-obvious activities! I am...sitting at my computer! I am...typing words! Hold your applause!

The child sighed. The sigh can scientifically be described as a “Not Another Dumb Adult” sigh. “Who are you?” she shrugged. She knew who I was. None of her kind.

“I am...a person...who walks,” I stuttered.

Then I demonstrated by walking away.

Attachment theorist John Bowlby might have been shamed by this act. But Bowlby doesn’t know jack about the Jolie-Pitts, does he?