This episode was originally released on April 4, 2023.

Transcript

I’m Major Jackson, and this is The Slowdown.

Confession: As a young parent, when my children barraged me with questions, so many times, I wanted to [poof] disappear. We’ve all experienced this moment (right?) when a child suddenly becomes a human question generator or a “you-think-you’re-smart-but-I’m-going-to-bring-you-to-your-knees-in-recognition-of-your-ignorance” kind of a child? No, there was never malice, but the onslaught felt relentless. Doesn’t matter the relations; if you’re an auntie or uncle, godparent, grandparent or older sibling, you, too, have probably been caught in the labyrinth of some child’s wonderment and sought the nearest way out.

Why is the moon in the sky? Where do subway rats sleep? Who made the first loaf of bread? Are we aliens? Why are trees green?

Although sometimes I knew the answers, I did not want to devote the entire morning to explaining sunlight, photosynthesis, and chlorophyll. Doing so would either daisy chain into a series of new questions, or cut into nap time. And they needed their sleep as much as I needed time to compose a poem during that quick respite.

Truth though, the desire to vanish would dissipate pretty quickly. A child’s curiosity deserves attention and cultivation; it might be one of the most important jobs of a parent. It makes sense that they see us as their personal wiki page and oracle. We lay the foundation for their navigation into the dense world of the unknown. We show them tools of discovery and hopefully inaugurate a lifetime of seeking answers to questions that will serve them when they have to face their most perplexing problems. As much as I wanted to escape my children’s aggressive inquiries, I realized that engaging them in their immense wonder would yield some of the most important conversations between us.

Today’s poem models the pitch of imagination that goes into satisfying a child’s curiosity in a way that leaves room for magic.

Six for Gold
by Kate Hanson Foster

When my six-year-old asks me where
he came from—how he, you know,
got inside my belly, he is swinging a broken 
tree branch around in the backyard.
Just swinging to feel the air molecules, 
to hear the faint whistle of resistance.
The invisible turbulence satisfies something 
for both of us—disturbing what you can't see.
You were a star I took for my own, I say.
But how does it work, he asks, you know, 
getting the star into your belly? I rub 
my hands together vigorously and then slowly 
pull them apart like a wizard commanding 
an invisible orb. I tell him to try— 
keep rubbing your hands as fast as you can, 
and when you are ready, stop—wait 
for the energy to arrive between your palms.
He doesn't know this is just a game, just 
our nerves responding to friction. He gently 
packs his hands around what he feels, a warm 
snowball. I say imagine that energy gathering 
into your belly. When you arrived, an old star 
collapsed and exploded, and in a huge 
blast you landed inside me. He tosses his secret 
ball into the sky—it's gone somewhere 
we will never find. Like gold crashing into a rock, 
or sinking into the bottom of a river, I say.
I can tell he is no longer listening—his eyes 
are back to the branch. I smile and scoop 
him up before he can grab it again, tickling 
his side to make him giggle. He wiggles 
in my arms, laughter bright and bursting, 
this boy who came to me like gold.

“Six for Gold” by Kate Hanson Foster from CROW FUNERAL, © 2022 Kate Hanson Foster. Used by permission of Eastover Press.