SIGNS OF THE TIMES

By Kris Bordessa

The bright, bold colors of billboards and street signs, with their various fonts and styles, intrigued my oldest son, Brad, long before he was reading.

“What’s that say mom?" he'd ask from the back seat as we whizzed down the highway. In no time, he was reading common signs on his own. 

The day he yelled, "STOP!" at the top of his little lungs, I breathlessly slammed on the brakes. When my brain seized on the lack of impact or crossing pedestrian, I looked in the rearview mirror to see my preschooler triumphantly pointing at the big red sign looming ahead of us, oblivious to my panic. I'd been reflexively stopping at those signs for years before I had help from my pint-sized backseat driver. I lived in fear that his exuberance would cause an accident.

He'd drag me by the hand to excitedly show me an EXIT sign or forcibly prevent me from ignoring a DO NOT ENTER sign. He took his signage seriously. He'd shock me on occasion by reading words like AVAILABLE.

"How do you know what that says?" I'd ask him. 

"From my Lego catalog. You know, 'not a-VAY-wable in any store.’"

Soon he was sharing the joy of sign reading with his younger brother, pointing out to Evan all of the words he recognized on our drives. As Brad outgrew street signs in favor of simple picture books, his brother's interest in reading signs accelerated. True to his personality, though, Evan found the more interactive signs. FOOD and EAT became two of his favorites, but any sign that he recognized was fair game. Our outings became excruciatingly long as he insisted that he needed to go potty every time he spotted the stumpy silhouettes of the universal restroom people. He didn't understand that the sign was informational - he perceived it as a direct instruction and there was no convincing him otherwise. His understanding of those signs most certainly helped him learn to use the toilet as he christened every bathroom within a 20 mile radius of home.

I shouldn't have been surprised when I started finding crudely lettered signs taped about the house."KEP OWT! NO BIG BOYS!" proclaimed one; "MY ROOM" announced another. Their affection for signs had spilled over into our daily lives. Most of the signs that my boys created yielded a glimpse into how they were feeling, what was bothering them, and what was important to them, becoming a kind of written barometer that I used to gauge their emotions. But some simply made me scratch my head, wondering what inspired their creation.

One day, Evan, earnestly working at the kitchen table yelled to me at the other end of the house, "Mom, how do you spell peace?"

"What kind of piece?" I asked, "Piece like a piece of bread, or peace as in peaceful?"

"Peaceful."

These pop quizzes happen frequently around here. I listed the appropriate letters in the correct order, not giving it a second thought, until I spotted the sign. Plastered on a bathroom door, scrawled in big capital letters with yellow crayon was a sign: POOP IN PEACE.

Oddly, this bathroom had become the kids' preferred choice, because, they claimed, it was quieter. (Note from the mom: No matter which bathroom I choose, there is seldom any peace. And, in case you were wondering, the sign proclaiming that I can indeed POOP IN PEACE in that particular bathroom never prevented people from knocking on said door with me on the inside.) While some parents might cringe at such a sign, I found it to be unobtrusive - and oddly - comforting.

Perhaps because I, too, utilize words to keep track of my day, my week, my life. A cluttered white board hangs above my desk, a reminder of all that I need to accomplish. Occasionally, I cross something off. Sticky notes cascade from the cupboard above the coffee maker, from the door, and even from the steering wheel of my vehicle, reminding me of promises that must be kept, errands that must be run, or chores to complete. I've even been known to use notes to communicate with my sign-reading kids - "BRUSH YOUR TEETH" or "MAKE YOUR BED" – as an alternative to constant verbal reminders. "Did you see my sign?" is much more intriguing than, "Have you brushed your teeth?"

And, of course, right backatcha mom – incensed when I walk past an instruction to NOK FERST my kids ask me the same thing: didn't you see my sign?

I know that those scrawled messages will someday stop appearing. No more will I stop in my tracks to see the demand of the day. I foresee a time when my artistic son will create custom designed signs for his door that will take up permanent residence instead of changing to fit the mood of the day; beautiful in its own way but a far cry from a sign hand-lettered by a novice just learning to communicate his needs. I suspect that my vocal child will give up signs altogether, instead relying on his quick thinking and fast tongue to moderate the world in which he lives.

I'll be left with my white board and sticky notes, and shopping lists that request deodorant and mouthwash in teenaged script; handwriting that I no longer recognize as my sons’. And, I see a day when, wistful about the passage of time, it will be my turn to shout from the backseat of parenthood, "STOP!" Just stop.

Kris Bordessa, a mother of two, writes regularly about family, fun, and travel. Her latest book is Great Medieval Projects You Can Build Yourself (Nomad Press). Visit her online at krisbordessa.com