The Butterwhy House

We finally seem to have hit a turning point with Mini-Me.

Why?

Because he's not throwing tantrums quite the same way as he was a couple months ago.

And he's starting to make up his own stories.

Why?

Because he and I would make up stories about his terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days to trick mom with at the dinner table.

Why?

Because we're silly.

But now he's telling the stories all by himself.

Why?

Because the cow apparently snuck into the room and laid on his cot at nap time, so he was unable to go to sleep until the teachers coaxed it out of the room by singing a nonsense song to the tune of "Jesus Loves the Little Children"

Why?

Honestly I don't know, but one other thing: the 'why's' have become less frequent.

W…oh?

Yeah. For what seemed like a never-ending epoch in our lives together he was an empty vessel, parched, thirsty, waiting to be filled, waiting to absorb all the knowledge of the world, yet questioning every drop.

And he still is thirsty, but the amazing thing is now I'm seeing his confusion shift to confidence. Every day I see him grasp bigger and more complex ideas. Every day I watch as he connects As and Bs and Qs and Us. Every day I'm there as he becomes his own man, albeit a short, immature man who likes eating Pop Tarts for breakfast, calling his brother "poopy head" and jumping off furniture.

This shift in Mini-Me's mentality became especially apparent during a recent trip to the butterfly house, which, if you've never been, is a wonderful place despite the occasional feeling that you're in a sauna with plates of overripe fruit. Seriously. It's incredibly warm and there are plates of festering fruit suspended from trees, beckoning the beautiful, delicate butterflies with their sugary goodness. It's downright tropical.

On this particular day, the air outside was frigid and crisp, tingling my nostrils with each inhalation as I hurried to catch up with Mini-Me, the Wubster, and the rest of the family. I slung my camera over my shoulder and squinted as the bright February sunshine reflected off a blanket of fresh snow. We'd visited the Butterfly House several times before, but never in the middle of winter. The humid, ripe warmth and "natural fragrances" would be welcomed today.

Before you can actually enter the butterfly area, though, you have to listen to a spiel about how to maintain the safety and security of these delicate, sensitive, natural beauties. The basic idea is "Don't touch the butterflies." I got it, my wife got it, the grandparents got it.

Apparently Mini-Me got it, too, because once inside, he shied away from every butterfly's approach. The Wubster tore along each path unaware of the dive bombing rainbow battalions, but Mini-Me looked frightened, as though the beating of their wings thundered in the air over his head. We guided him through the dome, corralling the Wubster as necessary.

Just before we reached the exit, Mini-Me came across a woman, probably in her mid-forties, kneeling in the path in front of us, reaching out to a fallen Blue Morpho. I'd seen her running around the place snapping photos, excitedly pointing out new finds to a man who sat indifferently on a bench in a far corner. As she knelt in front of us, the monarch tattoo peeking out from the hem of the left leg of her jeans, she confidently reached out her hand, Clara Barton of the butterfly house.

"You're not supposed to touch the butterflies!"

The voice struck fear in her; pride and slight embarrassment in me.

"I'm trying to help…" Defensive, scared, tense, she continued to nudge the wounded off the path.

"Don't touch!"

The voice boomed beyond its three years. It was loud, commanding, authoritative. It rang clear with a confidence of the ages.

"I know…it's just…" Her words hesitated as she continued her gentle sweeping of the wounded off the walkway and under a shrub.

"You're not supposed to touch the butterflies!"

I tried to assure him that she knew what she was doing. That it was okay for her to touch a butterfly. How do you explain to a three-year-old why, at forty-six, some rules are meant to be broken? She turned and looked up at him, her eyes pleading to the three-year-old boy watching her, his eyes burning with anger at her clear disregard for the laws of the land.

"I was just trying to help. He's protected now. Isn't that better?" She smiled, shrugged, and scurried sheepishly away before he could lash out again.

Mini-Me looked up at me and I smiled. "I'm proud of you, buddy!"

"Why?"