LATELY, NOAH HAD BEEN ASKING ODD QUESTIONS
One morning over cereal, he said:
“Mom?”
“Hmm?”
“How do dads know dad things?”
I laughed.
“What exactly is a dad thing?”
He counted on his fingers.
“Cars.”
“Tools.”
“Bikes.”
“Ties.”
“Fixing stuff.”
I smiled.
“Dads aren’t born knowing that.”
“But dads know.”
“Some dads do.”
I put down my coffee.
“Some moms do too.”
“Some grandmas.”
“Some teachers.”
“Some people don’t know any of it.”
Noah considered that very seriously.
“So there’s no dad stuff?”
“No.”
I tapped his cereal bowl.
“There’s just stuff people learn.”
“Who teaches them?”
“Anyone who knows something they don’t.”
He nodded.
Went back to eating.
I assumed the conversation was finished.
Noah apparently viewed it as an assignment.
LITTLE THINGS STARTED CHANGING
One afternoon, I noticed grease under his fingernail.
Another day, I saw him squeeze his bicycle tires.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking the pressure.”
“You’re seven.”
He shrugged.
Then while I was hanging a shelf, Noah corrected me.
“You need to keep the tape measure straight, Mom.”
I stared.
“Since when did you become a contractor?”
He giggled.
Ran away.
Another evening, I walked into my bedroom and found him standing in front of the mirror with one of my scarves around his neck.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“That looks like something.”
“I’m practicing.”
“For what?”
He pulled off the scarf.
“Nothing.”
I should have asked more.
Instead—
I kissed the top of his head and went back to burning dinner.
Standing outside Cedarbrook Elementary now, every one of those moments came rushing back.
Somebody had been teaching Noah.
And I had never once asked who.
