There will come a point when the pointed finger and simultaneous “eh! eh!” will be replaced by a question mark, but throughout his childhood, this will remain – my son is curious.
Curious about sounds – the wooden spoon against the cupboard, against the stove, against my head. Curious about buttons – on the radio, on the phone, on the computer. Curious about tastes – of pine cones, rocks and sand. Curious about shredding paper and crumpling magazines. Curious about everything.
Sometimes it’s annoying. Sometimes it’s too much. I spend my days herding him away from things I wish he wasn’t so curious about.
But on good days I really want to foster his curiosity. I want him to be an explorer, to be aware of his surroundings, to question what every one else declares normal.
I try to redirect his curiosity, try to give him new situations to explore, try to encourage him when his curiosity is stonewalled by fear. Because one of childhood’s best features is curiosity – the interest and excitement over ordinary things, the willingness to form one’s own ideas, the creativity to use things differently, the unwavering commitment to adventure.