James’ eyes darted around the room, his curious three-year-old mind taking in his expanding world. I thought I had child proofed the place, but there he was, looking up at the whistle I had hung from the highest peg, out of his range, but obviously not out of sight.

“Nana, can you get that down?” he asked, pointing straight up at the big referee whistle.

“James, I only bring that down when I am going to take a walk in the woods. I put it around my neck to use if I get lost or if I see a bear,” I explained, hoping that would satisfy him.

“Can I see it? He asked again, using his best selective listening.

“If I get it down, I know you will want to blow it. Maybe if you touch it, make a little toot, just to hear how it sounds, and then we’ll put it back up so we know where to find it when we go on a walk,” I offered, thinking I’d been very generous. “Will that work?” I asked him, wondering why I thought that would end it!

He had hooked me in, but I wouldn’t give it up without one more caution. “We’ll try it quietly, because we’re not going to get lost in the cabin and we surely don’t want to find any bears in here. Now, go find Grandpa to help get it down.”

Soon, James was back, instructing Grandpa to reach up and get him the whistle. Once in his eager hands, the whistle went right to his lips. James is not timid. The whistle let out a blast that rang through the cabin.

“James, we’re inside!” I grimaced. “Just make little whistle sounds. Blow carefully. Little puffs, like this,” I took a small breath and demonstrated.

The next five minutes were filled with a variety of tempos and decibels, mostly tolerable.

“Ok, James, time is up,” I said. He dutifully held out the rope with the whistle and handed it toward me, then stopped. If a three-year-old ponders, that is what he did next.

He tipped his head to one side, looked at the whistle and then back at me. “Nana,” he took a deep, pensive breath, “Nana, I think we should go on a walk. We can go out in the woods, find a bear and then. . .

whistle!”