Ulysses was working at one his favorite tasks, scrubbing the toilet in the front bathroom. I left him happily at it for a minute or two, but when I came back to see how he was doing, he had added a new element.

He looked joyfully up at me as I approached, glad to show me what he'd done: he'd put his life-sized toy biscuit into the water, and it bobbed gaily in the bowl as he plunged the toilet brush up and down. But his pride quickly dissolved into confusion and shock.  Instead of praising his cleverness, I cried out, "O, ne, ne, ne! To je nemoguche!" (No, no! That is an impossibility, or that can't be) and I snatched the biscuit out of the bowl.

U cried and protested, shaking his head no. But I repeated "Ne!" resolutely, even a little passionately, as I scrubbed the biscuit and squeezed out any water that might have seeped inside it. I talked about how the water in the toilet bowl is dirty and how we can't place anything in it. I took the biscuit back to the living room and tossed it among the other play food.

Less than a minute had passed before Ulysses quietly picked up the biscuit and trotted back toward the bathroom with it. Wordlessly, I followed several feet behind him to wait and see what to do, and when.

It occurs to me that when people talk about a small child having a strong will, they generally are not giving a compliment. Or if it is a sort of compliment, it is veiled  in a sympathetically sarcastic smile towards the child's parents. To say that a child is willfull means, fairly universally, that he is determined to be bad, or at least naughty. To do something that is contrary to what the grownups want. I think this is an example of how people in our culture don't really think much of children.

Still yards from his target, Ulysses slowed down. He stopped. The biscuit fell from his hand. His head fell forward. His knees buckled and he crumpled to the floor. He burst into bitter sobs, kneeling in a dejected heap.

Can you imagine how much will it would take to resist something so dearly wanted? So apparently harmless? For no reason beyond this: Mama said not to. How much trust must there be? To treat that not simply as some arbitrary decree, but as information important to respect. No matter how inscrutable.

He didn't know I was watching.

I felt I was witnessing the construction of the core of his personality, seeing him build his strength. Seeing the buildling of an ego.

I gathered him up in my arms. He felt to me as one exhausted. He curled towards me. I told him how good, smart, and strong he was. I carried him to the couch and we nursed.