And Zen What

Mournfully, Four presents to me the Shoebox of Infamy. Inside, a tangle of many-colored aliens, soldiers, dragons, robots, animals, weapons of varying degrees of real-life impossibility. Every one of 'em missing at least one important accouterment--a head, an arm, a laser gun.

Big, sad, brown eyes, all misty. Quivering lower lip. Shaky voice.

"See Mom?? He ALWAYS breaks my stuff, always!!!"

Four is a sensitive soul. In fact, he's been described by people other than his doting mother as an "old soul." He bonds with people. He bonds with animals. He bonds with toys.

He loves and treasures all his toys, from the complex and expensive birthday gift to the lowly MacDonald's Happy Meals toy. He remembers what each and every one of these thingies is supposed to do, the scenarios it inhabits, the exact circumstances in which it entered his life.

He stands before me, grieving for their undeserved deformities and diabilities.

Now, it's not like the kid doesn't have a mountain of this kind of stuff--a mountain range even. But that's the grownup mind talking. I know that. So I try for empathy for the maimed plastic population of the S of I.

M, M!: "Oh honey, I'm so sorry. Maybe we can think of a better place to put them so Six and Five can't get hold of them"

(M, M!, by the way, should get the Mother of the Year Award for not adding to "a better place," the phrase: "than the middle of the floor, on the furniture and in everybody's beds.")

I don't have to try for empathy for Four himself though. These hunks of plastic are not merely victims of sibling curiosity ("Let's see how Zorg looks with only one leg!"), but also vengeance ("That'll teach Four for being older than me!"). And each also represents a moment in time when the All-Powerful Mom was not single-mindedly focused on the toy owner.

No child can ever be focused on intensely enough, not even an "only" child. Part of the kid's job is to learn to be his own center of focus; part of the parent's job is to back off and let him figure out how to do it.

Four knows I love him intensely, enormously, forever-ly. And he loves me back. (Although I do believe that kids don't love parents in the same way that parents love kids.) But he can still feel wounded by the gaps in my attention--the moments when I am occupied with the other kids, household stuff, work--however unintentional and unavoidable those moments are.

M, M!: "I do understand that little brothers can be so annoying sometimes, and I'm sorry. Let's think of a way to help make it feel better for you."

His doe-like eyes clear instantly. I can see the ka-ching light go on.

"Ummmm..........there's this cool toy at Target? Pirates of the Caribbean? And it's really really cool and they can fight and they can climb and please please please please please........."

It can be pretty hard to be a big brother, all right, but sometimes it's nothing a trip to the toy aisle can't cure.