A is for Advent: A Three-Year-Old's Perspective

M is for Mimic

Timmy's a follower. Perhaps when he's older it will bother him that his little brother is the one to be brave first; to start new trends. But for now, he likes it that way.

Timmy doesn't use a slide or climb a ladder until he's seen someone else do it first, and survive it. He doesn't try new food until he sees someone else do it first, and swallow it. And he doesn't believe dogs are friends...ever. That one's rather the exception to the rule.

He is with his family at a barbeque dinner party. It's huge. It has more people than his daycare does; more people than he's ever seen eating in one place. He's okay with that, though. It means there are more people to watch.

Mum is sitting on a picnic chair in the back yard. She's talking with a group of grownup people, about grownup things. Boring things. Not about ducks or robots. Timmy pulls himself up into a vacant chair to join them, anyway.

So far, so good. Nobody looks at him like he doesn't belong. Now he just has to think of something to say. Something grownup. Something that shows how clever he is. Maybe he could show that he knows the difference between She and He, now.

"Mummy's got girl bits," he offers.

There's a hush in the group, as the grownups absorb his wisdom, looking stunned and surprised at his cleverness. 

Finally Mum speaks. "...Yes. Thank you, Timmy."

Timmy is proud of his contribution to the conversation. But when the grownups go off topic and start comparing stories of embarrassing things kids say, he decides it's time to move on.

Besides, he can see a girl riding a bike. It looks fun. The girl looks happy enough; she hasn't fallen off. Maybe he could ride a bike, too. The idea has been in his head for only about a minute when he's heaving another of the child-sized bicycles out of the shed.

He's got a bike at home, but it has more wheels, and a large steering pole out the back for a grownup to push as they walk behind him. His bike isn't like this one. His bike doesn't have Lightning McQueen on it. He likes this one.

He hauls the bike away from the shed easily enough, but his first problem comes when he tries to get on it. The bike won't stand up properly. It's only got two wheels, which is a silly mistake, because how can something stand up properly on only two wheels? It makes it difficult to clamber on.

When he manages it, he finds he can only straddle the crossbar. The seat is too high. This is another silly mistake, but then, this bike has Lightning McQueen on it, so he can overlook the occasional design flaw. That still leaves the problem of how to get on, though.

"Mummy!" Timmy calls. "Mummy, help! Please! Help me!"

Mum comes over and lifts him onto the seat, but now his feet can't touch the grass. This throws him, momentarily, before he remembers they don't need to be, anyway; they're supposed to be on the pedals. 

He holds on to the handlebars and puts his feet on the pedals. He looks at Mum, expectantly. She has let go of him, but she's still holding on to the bike. 

How can he ride it, if Mum is going to hold it still?

"Mummy, let go, Mummy!" he says.

"If I let go, you'll fall down," Mummy says.

No, Timmy thinks. He won't. The girl riding the other bike isn't falling down. She looks a lot older than him, but this doesn't strike Timmy as relevant.

He can see someone doing it, therefore, it can be done.

Therefore, he will do it.

"Let go, Mummy, let go!" he insists.

Mummy lets go.

He doesn't like it when Mum is right and he is wrong, but when he feels himself falling he doesn't have time to feel sorry for himself. He doesn't have time to feel anything. 

He can't feel the bike under him anymore. He's still falling.

Then he isn't. Mum catches him so the ground doesn't. "You're too small for this one," she says as she lowers his feet to the grass. She carries the Lightning McQueen bike back to the shed.

Okay, so it wasn't that he simply can't ride a bike, then. This one was just the wrong size.

Timmy runs ahead of Mum into the bike shed, to select another.

"Want this one, Mummy!" He points to a blue one in the corner. It's a different size than the Lightning McQueen one. Shinier, too. Timmy wants it.

"That's a grownup's bike," says Mum. "You're not riding that."

She looks around the shed. "You're too small for all these bikes," she says. "You'll have to try them when you're a bit bigger."

It doesn't occur to Timmy to protest. He's just seen one of the other boys trying to throw light plastic balls between the wires of the rotary clothesline. It looks like fun. Timmy wants to try it.

Timmy's a follower.

He likes it that way.