I’ve been driving Abby to school ever since Riley was born. She’s got her own thoughts and questions about everything, many of which are too difficult to have conversations about.
Today in the car we were talking about the light snow that had fallen overnight. She asked what the “water shooting out” was. She had seen the snow from the hood of the car blow by her window. I tried to explain this to her, but she didn’t grasp a few of the concepts that seem simple to us adults.
For example, I tried to say that the snow was light. Of course the snow is light, but it doesn’t move itself. Then I tried to explain that the car had moved and the wind blew the snow from the hood. “What do you mean it blew?” Nuances of language were causing barriers. And then there’s the whole dry versus wet snow.
Imagine that you’re three, and someone tells you, “It’s a dry snow.” You would look at them in disbelief. Everyone knows that snow is frozen water. But it’s dry? And then be an adult and try to explain what the difference is between wet and dry snow? Can you even quantify it? Can you explain it so that a three-year-old understands? I pretty much failed that test.
Then we had this argument about the taste of snow. Clearly, the educator here is A Charlie Brown Christmas, where Lucy and other peanuts catch snowflakes on their tongues. Well, in spite of what Lucy says, snowflakes do not taste sugary. They tast like, well, water. Barely. And what does water taste like? Answer that one.
Don’t make the mistake I did and try to explain that eating snow shouldn’t be done. Too many pollutants in the air for it to be clean. I remember my 4th grade snow experiment well. Yuck.
A discussion on snowballs and their construction. You have to pick up snow and press it together into a ball shape. “But you can’t do it with the snow today,” I say, “because it’s dry snow and won’t stick together.” Abby silently avoids another of my attempts at explanation.
The salt in the parking lot was a joy, too. “Look at the big snow on the ground.” No, that’s salt. “It’s very crunchy. Why is it cruchy?” Uh… That’s just the way it is.
Nevermind that there is an actual explanation for the crunchiness, and that I can probably give it. You need to parse these questions and try to provide answers to the questions in their minds. Often, though, you have no idea what their mental wonder is.
We survived this morning’s trip well, thanks to Abby’s willingness to get up on her own and cooperate at breakfast time. When Berta goes back to work in a couple weeks, we’re probably going to trade between each other the task of taking Abby to school. I’m glad.
