Earlier, I handed a sheet of stamps and a pile of postcards to my five-year old Remy. He was to place the stamps onto the proper corner of the postcards (invitations to his brother’s birthday party). He stared at the tropical fruits stamps. “Is all you have kiwi, Mama?” he asked, peering over to the fruit bowl. He set to work. He affixed a couple of stamps. “Don’t you have any papaya?” he inquired. After a couple more, he realized that he’d switched to the wrong corner “These stamps are making me wish you had star fruit,” he explained, handing me the mostly untouched pile. “I’m too tired and too hungry for watermelon to do any more,” he added. I thanked him for helping, then tucked him under a baby blanket on the couch and handed him a picture book about knights. He is “reading” now. We are listening to the rain. The birthday boy or I will adhere the rest of the stamps to the postcards later.

Helping’s an impulse that must be nurtured. Helping—in daily life—seems to me not only important for happy home but a virtual sowing of seeds towards helping in the world. Helping is a tricky trait to bring along with joy. This morning, it cost me fifty-two cents. Money well spent, I thought to myself as I pried the errant stamps from the top left corner of two postcards. I’d been careful to display neither disappointment in a mistake (perfectionism is already an issue for Remy) nor any frustration that he didn’t actually complete the task, because I wanted to be sure to appreciate his efforts.

In my household, some helping occurs organically. Before coming downstairs, Remy hung out with his baby sister for about ten minutes until she grew cranky, at which point he passed her to me (literally, given that he’d carried her down the stairs). I didn’t ask for his aid; he wanted to be with her, but he knew he was the one taking care of her, which was not only fun but helpful, too. Getting the twelve-year old to place socks in hamper… well, that impulse doesn’t appear to be a natural one. My voice could wear out solely from repeating phrases like clear your plate or unpack your lunch bag or turn off the lights . Gradually, though, he at least completes those tasks more often than not. For the longest time, I cleared the plate and tossed the socks into the hamper each and every time (and too often still do). Ezekiel’s our first. He was our little baby prince (as my stepfather said soon after Ezekiel started crawling, “But why should his feet touch the ground? We can carry him.”). Ha-ha. It seemed easier to do for him than to have him (learn to , that’s the operative concept) do for himself. When Ezekiel was still a toddler, our second baby arrived, a grandfather was very ill, and for me—already in perpetual caretaking mode—I had more energy to keep doing than to slow down and encourage him to learn to do. By the third child, I’d come to understand that those sometimes tedious or frustrating moments reap eventual reward. Better to learn how to gather your stuff for school or put things away or get the stamp on the postcard than to feel uneasy about attempting routine requests like these—or believe someone else can do them all for you.

All isn’t lost with Ezekiel. He does help with the siblings; he is enthusiastic about saving the earth (along with his middle brother Lucien, they have a Save the Earth club); he volunteers at the school library and co-edited the school’s literary magazine. Although his room’s a disaster (oh, and his locker could more aptly be called the receptacle for lost socks —and even a lost shoe ) he is trying to hone his helpful instincts. He does care for others. The more I encourage him to be empathic and competent, the more these traits emerge. Even if I missed some (okay, many ) teachable moments earlier, I’ve begun guiding him to place feet on ground. While his head remains in the clouds, I think that he likes using his feet.