Buttons

Buttons beckon to my son, like a compulsive itch that needs to be scratched. These little circles taking no effort to press, hold mystery and excitement as to what powers they may hold. Opening up doors that take you to somewhere new, turning on machines that whirl, rumble, and hum, stopping cars within a moment's time, calling a strange voice that wasn't there moments before. Buttons change the monotony of the moment.

It started innocently, us as naive parents, allowing their child to flirt with the control that a button commands, but quickly the demand for authority spiraled into an addiction, causing us to be on constant guard. The fallout from our decision, has caused the emergency help button to be pressed in the elevator countless times, the 9-1-1 on speed dial had to be erased, the dishwasher setting are always changed, and the traffic at each intersection passed during a walk, has had to stop for no other reason than the delight of my child. The pinnacle, thus far, has been the fire alarm pulled at the gym daycare he attends daily. The building's alarm rang at a noise level that could be heard from blocks away. All levels of the structure were evacuated, other than the gym itself, as we were aware of the false alarm. Traffic was stopped along Broadway, by three fire trucks racing to attend the possible emergency. And firemen dressed in their uniforms hovered in the daycare near the pulled alarm, while talking to the manager of the gym, and other adults in authority. Although my son sobbed in my arms knowing he was the culprit, this frantic tumult was not unnoticed. I believe, since then, his fascination with buttons and now, levers, has grown. The excitement with the possibility of danger is a strong urge that cannot be dismissed lightly.

My in-laws have moved into a brand new townhome, where they have a stacker washer and dryer, a microwave two feet off the ground, a water dispenser on the outside of the fridge, and a dish washer with flashing red lights, all of which are easily assessable by my son's little fingers. When these buttons are touched, something exciting happens, the least of it being, an adult comes running. Our nights together are spent in conversation and vain efforts in trying to deter my son from accessing these appliances. In vain, I mean, we left their house last Saturday, and the washer was running with a load that consisted of a book, two plastic bags, and an abundant amount of soap.

The battle between us and our son's desire to press buttons is ongoing. Innovative and creative reasoning, broken down to basic sentences is a constant puzzle that haunts us several times a day. Our final recourse is to threaten him with the idea that the fireman will come, even if he simply wants to press the buzzer on an intercom. I would advise against letting your little one follow the path we have blindly lead our child down, as the simple press of a button is now an action that irks us more often than we would like to admit.