It’s a small world -- still
“Dad!”
“What?”
“I’m locked in the bathroom!”
Now here’s a moral dilemma. A 4-year-old locked in the bathroom. Thump-thump-thump. Do I wait a few hours to rescue him, or the entire day? There’s our dilemma.
“Dad!”
“Huh?”
“I’m still locked in the bathroooooooooom!” he sings.
Hmmmm. He’s locked in the bathroom. Thump-thump-thump. How, I’m not sure, since the lock is on the inside of the door, which is where he is located as well. Within the bathroom. Perhaps the doorknob is just jammed a little. Or maybe he’s stuck in the toilet. Which has happened, trust me. Kerplunk.
“What’s going on here?” his mother asks, hearing him holler from the bathroom.
“Nothing,” I say.
“Mom, I’m locked in the bathroom!” he says.
“Well, that’s a dilemma,” she says to me.
“I know,” I say.
Hasn’t the little guy been 4 years old forever? It’s like he was born 4, then never celebrated another birthday for two or three years. He’s the Jack Benny of 4-year-olds, never changing his age, never wanting to get any older.
At times, I wonder whether he’s a figment of my imagination -- an alter ego or perhaps some emerging schizophrenic condition. But then he spills yogurt all over the carpet, and I know how real he is. As real and alive as anything has ever been.
“Dad?” asks the little girl.
“Yes?”
“Is he really locked in the bathroom?”
“Yes.”
“Ya-HOOOOOOO!” says the little girl.
It’s not all fun and games being 4. Someone is always feeding you veggies or nagging you about your shoes. Put them on, pick them up, get them out of the meat drawer. That kind of stuff. Sheeesh, 4 can be frustrating.
At 4, you have absolutely no power over anyone, no input on where to go for Chinese or when to see the dentist. You are sheep -- herded this place and that, pushed toward the Chuck E. Cheese exit, strangled by cars seats.
Four is full of limitations. At 4, it’s hard to meet women, for example. Everyone thinks you are soooooooooooooo cute, but no one takes you seriously. It makes dating nearly impossible.
At 4, no one asks what you think of Obama or which team you like in the Dallas-Green Bay game. No one seeks your help with precalculus, or Spanish. They don’t even trust you feeding the goldfish.
“NO-THAT’S-TOO-MUCH!” your mother hollers, running the words together in that language panicked mothers use. “DON’T-FLUSH-THAT!” or “THAT’S-ALIVE-GET-IT-OUT-OF-THE-HOUSE!” are two more phrases you hear panicked mothers of 4-year-olds use all the time.
Of course, there are good things about being 4. Four can be fun; it can be adventurous. You are the master of limericks, for example.
“Ticktock, ticktock, I’m a little cuckoo clock . . . ticktock, ticktock. . . . “
And, at 4, you still believe in saints, fairies, mermaids, trolls, angels and elves -- animated and real. You believe there are monsters under every bed and ghouls in every closet. It’s exciting to be always on alert about impending doom. To live within the storybook. To poke at shadows with foam swords.
When you’re 4, you believe that the good guys always win and that all brides live happily ever after. You believe that all dogs instantly love you and that you’ve met them somewhere before, in some pre-world where puppies and little boys hang out together, planning mayhem, jumping on the couch. Sort of a greenroom of life.
At 4, you appreciate the little things. Ravioli from a can. Rain on a skylight. Any food that comes on a stick -- corn dogs, cotton candy, Popsicles.
You can wink at people when you’re 4, and they won’t assume you’re conning them, or flirting with them, or trying to win their vote in the primary. They’ll merely think you’re 4 and just learned how to wink, which is completely true.
At 4, you’re always prepared. You keep lots of stuff in your jeans pockets, just in case. Dead bees and pennies and the insides of broken pens. Half a crayon. Old chewing gum. Your mother’s keys. Your father’s cellphone.
When something is missing, they always look to you first. At 4, you’re like the FBI of lost things.
“Daaaaaaaad!”
“Huh?”
“I’m still locked in the bathroooooooooom,” he yells, thump-thump-thump.
“Be there in a minute,” I answer, then start on the other half of my Saturday sandwich.
Yep, he’s been 4 forever, that kid. Lucky guy. Lucky us.
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Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.
For more columns, see latimes.com/erskine.
