Aidan also has gone through years of this same kind of worrying, so I’ve dealt with it before. (Mack has never expressed these fears, probably because it has never occurred to him that he is not invincible.) But the years of experience have not taught me how to deal very effectively with their concerns. I mean, you can reassure your kids about a lot of things: you are going to do great in your soccer game, your hair looks cool, of course you will have a pretty girlfriend someday. But you can’t tell them that they aren’t going to die. Well, I guess you can, but I don’t think that’s doing the kid any favors in the long run.

I usually tell them that they will live a long life, and do all the things they want to do. “You’ll go to college, and have a job you like, and get married.” I tell them they’ll get a chance to be a daddy, and a grandpa, and a great grandpa. Then, I say, when they are about 100 they will be tired and they will be ready to rest and they won’t mind dying. (By the way, I think Aidan has always taken “100″ to be a hard number, and if he dies when he is 98 I think he’ll be really pissed at me.)

This talk usually calms them somewhat, although it sometimes leads to other hard questions. “What if I don’t get a wife?” “What if I don’t get a job I like?” and Reid’s latest, “What if I get diabetes?” I usually give an answer that is a variation on, “We all worry about these things. But if you worry about them all the time, you won’t be able to enjoy your life. Try not to worry so much.”

I’m not sure where the preoccupation with death comes from. We certainly don’t talk about death a lot…until they bring it up. The kids haven’t been faced with much death during their lives, and they’ve never known a child who died. Somehow, though, I’ve managed to create these little metaphysical kids. It makes me sad to think of them worrying about this stuff. They’ve got the rest of their lives to worry; shouldn’t the years before 10 be angst-free?

Sometimes these depressing little conversations do lead to a good laugh for me, though. The other day I was giving Reid the spiel about all the things he will get to do as an adult. I was talking about how he’ll get married and have kids. I said, “And I will be their Grammy! Won’t that be funny?” Then I asked him whether sometimes I could babysit his kids, the way his Grammy babysits him. I said, “And that way you could have a break to go out to dinner with your wife.”

He cocked his head, thought for a second a replied, “Or maybe like a friend from work.” Five years old, and already he wants to go out with the boys, and not with his wife!

Take, for example, my delicious little Reid, who just turned five. He’s a sweet little darling…but I can already see the signs that he is turning to the dark side.

Today we had the twin boys who carpool with us over to play after school. The three little guys hopped out of the van and came tearing inside, heading for the basement and the bounty of toys and video games therein. Reid got to the basement door first and pulled it open. Then he turned, smirked and, with an elaborate flourish of his hand, exclaimed, “Ladies first!”

Now, I’m not talking picky eaters like, “That’s the wrong brand of macaroni and cheese.” or “This steak is too rare for me.” I’m talking picky eaters like absolutely refuse to eat almost anything. Ever. If Reid and Mack took up smoking and got hair weaves, they would be indistinguishable from the models for Italian Vogue. Food rarely passes their lips.

Yesterday Reid burst into tears in the car because I mentioned that we might go to a restaurant he doesn’t like. “I can’t do it! I can’t do it!” Last night Mack and I had a 20-minute showdown because I wanted him to eat a piece of bread with butter on it. Yes, I know, I’m really pushing the limits on cuisine. We went back and forth, with the whining (him) and the threatening (me) and the begging (both of us) until he finally choked down half of it – by holding his nose for each bite and then immediately washing it down with water. Bread and butter.

In order to get them to eat, sometimes we play a game called Questions. It’s not too hard to explain. I come up with a topic (Star Wars, Presidents, Math, etc.) and then I ask each of them a question related to that topic. If they get the answer wrong they have to take a bite of food. This game works well at getting them to grimace and have a few bites of asparagus or mashed potato. But it is a lot of work. I have to think of the topics, then come up with questions that aren’t too easy or too hard, depending on the age of the kid who’s up.

Byron is no help with this game at all. If the topic is baseball, he’ll ask Reid, “How many hits did Roberto Clememte have in 1969?” When we give him the stink eye, he’ll ask, “What? Isn’t the point to make them get it wrong?”

But that isn’t the point. The point is to make them have fun and forget that they are being made to eat gross, disgusting FOOD. It’s also a nice way to interact because they each get a turn, and they know they will get that turn. So there isn’t as much interrupting and yelling over each other.

The other night, while playing Questions, I did a round of Reid questions. That led to Aidan questions, Mack questions, Daddy questions and finally Mommy questions. For Reid, my Mommy question was “How many brothers does Mommy have?”

This led us into an off-game discussion about all the people we know with two brothers. Mommy has two brothers! Auntie Emmy has two brothers! Grandpa has two brothers! And, of course, I said, “All of you have two brothers.”

Reid started shaking his head adamantly. “What, Reid?”

“I have zero brothers.”

I laughed, “What? You have two.”

“Nope. None.”

“Well then, what do you call these two guys?” I asked, gesturing to the brothers sitting on either side of him.

He looked to the left. He looked to the right. Then he looked back at me and said, “Minions.”

Last night, Reid and I were cuddling in bed, talking about our day. I asked him whether he had fun sledding, and playing with Grandpa. Then I asked him if he knows who Grandpa is.

“Your daddy,” he replied. “Right,” I told him. Then I described how, when I was three, I would snuggle with my daddy the same way Reid was snuggling with me.

“And, someday, when you have kids, I will be their grammy.” Which is hilarious. “And you will be their daddy.” Which is even more hilarious.

Then I asked Reid, “When you have babies, what will you name them?”

He replied, without missing a beat, “Byron, Icarus and Perseus.”

So, seriously, even in the next generation I’m not getting a girl?

Reid was so relaxed that they actually took him and me in for our cleanings at the same time. As the hygienist was torturing me, I could hear Reid charming all the ladies in the next room. Of course, he was done before I was (his teeth are smaller in both number and size). So I was still in mid-cleaning, mouth full of implements, when they brought Reid out into the hallway to get his post-appointment swag.

I listened to him choose which color toothbrush he wanted, and pick a sticker from the rack. Then the receptionist led him over to the toy treasure chest and told him he could choose something. He rooted around, and I heard him come up exclaiming, “Bubbles!”

Then I heard this, “Oh, you want bubbles? Okay, but that’s a pink bottle. That’s a girl color. Let’s put that back and get you a different color, one for boys.”

The hygienist must have thought she did something really wrong, because I started screaming, “No! No! There is no such thing as ‘boy colors’ and ‘girl colors’! All the colors are for everyone!”

But since there were about three dental tools and a hose in my mouth at the time, it sounded like, “Naaah! Naaah! Thar nan finks be kras and grr kras! Aw kras fo ebery n!”

So nobody knew why I was absolutely losing my mind, and they continued blithely on. Reid ended up with an orange bottle of bubbles. I finished my cleaning (the dentist told me I was a very good girl). We checked out and I somehow managed not to smack the receptionist either physically or verbally.

But I know that the next time this discussion comes up in our house o’ many boys – as it does on a weekly basis – Reid will bring up this independent confirmation that boys can’t like pink. And year after year of Mommy telling you something can’t defeat one stranger offhandedly confirming that the opposite is true.

Then I asked the question I only ask if I am in a generous mood, “Do you want squares or triangles?” Today, the Universe obviously wanted to punish me, because he responded, “Circles.”

When I cut it into triangles anyway, telling him I couldn’t do circles, Reid disappeared and some sort of terrible banshee-like monster arrived in his place. “Cirrrrrrrrcles! Cirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrcles! Can’t eat this! Cirrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrcles!” Oh, the tears. The wailing. The kicking of feet and pounding of fists.

So I used my little butter knife to carve those triangles into four disgusting little squashed, half-oval, half-circular sandwich morsels. That did the trick, and Reid calmed down…then ate, as usual, about one and a half bites of the whole sandwich.

Never one to turn down anything free, especially if it is worth hundreds of dollars, we jumped at the chance for him to participate.

Obviously, I didn’t want Reid to be scared about this experience. So I did my best to prepare him for what it would be like, how he’d have to leave Mommy and go in another room, but I would be right there in the building. I didn’t really know what the testing itself would be like, except that it was described as “game-type” evaluations. So I explained to Reid that would play games and show the “lady” how well he could talk.

I know that word-association games are often used when testing young children. So I used that as an example for Reid. For days before the exam, we played. I would say, “Car” and he would respond, “Drive.” I’d throw out “Sandwich” and he’d respond, “Eat.” I said “Dog” and, quick as could be, he’d react with, “Woof.” I couldn’t believe how good he was. We’d sit and play with eight-year-old Mack, and Reid was usually quicker than his big brother.

So the day of the evaluation came. We drove the 45 minutes to the office and waited for our turn. The tester came to take Reid and he was chattering at her all the way down the hallway, “We’re going to do testing. I get to do it because I am three. Can I hold your hand?” I thought, “Oh, he is so going to ace this.”

The testing took about 90 minutes, most of which I spent filling out the 47 different forms they gave me. Let me tell you how fun that was. First was the form where I had to supply the various ages at which Reid met different developmental milestones – sitting up, standing, walking, saying 2-3 words together, etc. Well, I could remember perfectly all the ages where my first-born did those things, and some of the ages for Aidan, my middle child. But, for Reid, I felt like every answer could have been, “Somewhere between five months and 35 months.” I know its a cliché that we don’t allow our subsequent children to astonish us the way the first one does, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t true.

Then came the forms where we had to answer questions about our own parenting, how happy we are doing it and how well we think we are performing. Reading the statement, “I feel that I am being the best parent I can be to my child” and realizing that my answer was either “somewhat agree” or “somewhat disagree” is seriously eye-opening.

Finally were the forms where we had to evaluate our child’s development and behavior….also known as the forms with ridiculous questions. Remember, this study is for three year olds. So who is going to answer “never” to the question, “Does your child ever whine?” Or “Does your child have difficulty waiting his turn?” Or my favorite, “Does your child become overly frustrated when faced with what is only a small obstacle?” (Here is when I was glad that I was filling out the form about Reid, not about me.)

At the end of the final form, it asked me whether I thought my child’s intelligence was A) Very low, B) Somewhat below average, C) Somewhat above average or D) Superior. I thought for a minute, and almost went with C. Then I remembered how quickly my little star mastered word association, and I circled D. (We also had to assess the intelligence of the child’s mother and father. I’ll keep those answers to myself.)

Finally, Reid came out of the room. He had a sticker and a lollipop and was ready to go. We were told we’d get the results in about six weeks. On the way out to the car, I asked Reid, “Did you play the game where the lady says a word, and then you say a word?” He replied, “Yes.” “Awesome,” I thought. I knew it.

“Can you think of a word she said?” “Dog.” “Oh, that’s one of the ones we did! What did you say back?”

“Dog.”

“She said ‘Dog’ and then you just said ‘Dog’ back?” “Uh huh.”

I should have gone with C. Or maybe B.

After pizza and the usual period of indiscriminately tearing around the house, everyone settled down for popcorn and a movie. The evening’s feature presentation was Earth, Disney’s recent nature documentary. It didn’t have any sarcastic superheroes or talking rodents, but it managed to keep the kids’ attention nonetheless.

As usual with nature documentaries, this one eventually showed a high-tension chase, with a speedy predator going after something slower and doomed. In this case it was a cheetah and a Thompson’s gazelle.

Everyone had a different reaction to the thrilling sequence. Each, I think, demonstrates well the way our brains work at different ages.

Thirty-somethings Byron and I wondered how they managed to get these shots. How long do these people have to sit still, in the jungle or on the tundra, waiting for the chase to happen? Can they bring a book or an iPod? Wow, think of the peace and quiet. And what kind of cameras do they use? The clarity is amazing. It’s crazy how technology keeps advancing.

Elementary-school-age Mack, Kiley and Aidan were yelling, “Is the cheetah going to catch him? The gazelle is pretty fast! Is the gazelle going to get away? What is the cheetah going to do to him? He’s going to eat him, isn’t he! Gross! Is there going to be blood? Will we see the blood? How much blood?”

Three-year-old Reid said nothing through the whole chase. He seemed riveted by the action, deep in thought. Then he turned to us and said, “I wish I had a tail.”

Anyway, he just woke up and I asked him (as I always do), “What did you dream about?”

“Darth Vader was chasing me.”

“Oh no! Were you scared?”

“No.”

“Really? I would have been scared.”

“Grandpa was holding my hand.”

Reid looks so cute in his little soccer outfit. The cleats are each about the size of a computer mouse, then you have these enormous, thick socks that go up to mid thigh. The ball reaches up to his knees.

He may look little out there, but Reid was ready to get on the field. He attended his first soccer practice, for brother Mack, on the day he came home from the hospital.