The first one is usually, "What’s that?" At least, it was for both my daughters. Even with six and a half years between them, I remembered the questions. What I hadn’t fully recalled was the sheer intensity of the toddler world: their innocence, their curiosity, the way they are constantly wondering and exploring and learning; the way they live life, fiercely and all out, with little concept of the past or future.

My younger daughter, Allie, will be 2 in a few weeks. As she slips through the ever-smaller window between ignorantly blissful babyhood and the civilized world, with all its rules and routines, there is so much I need to teach her: not just colors and numbers and letters and the names of everything she sees, but also how to feed and dress herself, say please and thank-you and goodbye, use the potty, share toys, resist the urge to rip her books.

It can be overwhelming. But I’m finding that when I just relax and enjoy her world, I learn as much as I teach.

—

We are driving to the video store on a Saturday night. The moon is full and bright, and Allison can’t take her eyes off it. "Moon go?" she asks, each time it disappears from view. In the parking lot, she points, voice

straining with excitement, Moon! See?" Moon!" She refuses to go into the store. "Moon," she insists, tugging backward on my hand. I tell her she will see the moon again when we come out. I point to the bright lights and colorful plastic cases. "Moon," she repeats, planting her feet in the doorway. I scoop her up and go inside, and in seconds she’s squirming to get down.

It’s amazing how easy it is to compromise when your toddler is loose in a store with no shopping carts and hundreds of tems within reach. My husband and I agree on a movie in record time. "Moon go?" Allie asks, the second we step outside. I look up to see that, suddenly, there is no moon. Just like that, it has vanished. We walk around the parking lot, craning our necks.

"Moon go?" she asks, over and over, all the way home. I search for an explanation. "Maybe it’s hiding behind a cloud" doesn’t stop her asking, but it’s all I can come up with. "Maybe the moon went to sleep," I say, finally, and this satisfies her. "Moon seeping," she says, putting her thumb in her mouth and rubbing her cheek with the corner of her blankie. Meanwhile, I’m scolding myself for being so dumb.

I should have known better than to promise her the moon.

—

I am raking a pile of leaves when Allison suddenly stops her jumping and stands completely still. "Honk, honk!" she says, pointing at the sky. "Look! Right there!" A flock of geese passes noisily, in a perfect V formation.

The geese are frequent fliers in our patch of sky, and ever since Allie’s first "What dat, Mama?" each flyover has been a major event. Today, I am thinking that this is really something to see: so simple, and yet so beautiful. If I were by myself, would I have even bothered to look up and watch them pass? "Tweet-tweet go?" she interrupts. I point to the dots in the distance and try to explain about winter and birds flying south. Later, I find myself Googling "geese + migratory routes" because I am curious.

—

There’s no question: Life with a toddler is a constant learning experience.

Allison has taught me to see things I used to be too busy to notice. She has taught me to be more patient and more present. She has taught me to be a better negotiator, to plan ahead as well as to think on my feet, to wonder a little more and worry a little less.

I know her questions will become more complex as she gets older. I know that I will never have all the answers, but I’ll always be the better for her asking. And I know that, like all the phases of childhood, the "what’s-that/where’d-it-go" stage won’t last.

If memory serves, it won’t be long before she’s asking, "Why?"

———

Lisa Miller is a freelance writer who lives in Oneonta. She can be reached at lisamiller44@hotmail.com.