Some of my earliest memories, when I was just a toddler, involve helping my father. The first house I lived in with my family was a brick ranch with a sizable lot behind it that was mostly overgrown and wild. At some point my father decided that leaving it fallow was a waste and that he must put the land to work. If I recall, the plan was to plant peanuts. But that involved clearing the land, and lacking any heavy machinery for the job, he did it by hand, with me “helping.” My helping is not such a clear memory, but I’d bet it was mostly getting in the way. I know I was most effective as a messenger, asking my mother to prepare a cup of coffee for Dad as well as a cup of “coffee milk” for me. Or maybe I just remember that because I heard my parents tell the story so many times. Such are first memories.

A few weeks ago, it was the Girl’s turn to help. She was actually quite helpful. Sure, I had to go back and correct some places where she’d put too much stain on and created runs, but that was easier than doing all the work myself, and the joy she got from helping was all the more priceless.

Today, as I got material ready for L’s big room change, the Boy comes down the stairs with his careful step, sitting on the bottom and watching me for a moment before rising and asking the question of the day.

“Help you, Daddy?”

What can a two-year-old do that’s truly helpful? Nothing. What can I do to help him feel helpful? Everything.

I give him a sealed bag and ask him to open it. He struggles for a while before asking, “Help me Daddy?”

In the end, I find some extra parts and a pair of needle nose pliers and ask him if he can pick up the spare parts with the pliers.

It keeps him occupied and filled with joy for at least twenty minutes.