The Philosophy of Four-Year-Olds

Will Ferguson

I was sweeping behind the chesterfield the other day, and my thoughts naturally turned to the great Woolly Mammoth. As I recall, several years ago, some scientists discovered a frozen mammoth preserved in the icefields of the Siberian steppes, and what did they do? They had themselves a barbecue.

If you think that chowing down on 10,000-year-old steak is a strange way to celebrate an important scientific discovery, you obviously don't have any children around your house. The scientists were simply channelling the four-year-old in us all. They were re-enacting the childhood ritual of Easter.

Housecleaning at our place always resembles archaeology; you never know what you will unearth, and sure enough, out from behind the couch rolled a chocolate egg from some Easter past. Because sweeping behind the couch is one of my (theoretical) duties, God only knows how long that egg had been back there. It might have been years.

Not that it mattered to my four-year-old son, Alex. The chocolate egg hadn't even finished rolling when he leapt upon it.

"Spit it out!" I shouted just as he swallowed. "You'll get sick."

"No, I won't. Because we won't tell Mom."

Like four-year-olds everywhere, Alex lives in an "observer affected universe." It was a Zen koan made manifest: If chocolate is consumed and Mom is not present to see it, does it still count? Of course not. Four-year-olds intuitively understand that a tree, falling unobserved in the woods, makes no sound.

Easter is not about theology, it is about archeology. And what is the point of discovering an egg behind the couch or a mammoth in the tundra if you can't eat it?

Here, then, are some of the philosophical maxims I have gleaned from my son, ranging from the existential to the epistemological:

Santa Claus is the root of all celebrity culture. The trembling excitement, the carefully choreographed public appearances, the photographic souvenir, the pleading, deluded fan letters: the cult of celebrity begins at Santa's knee. It's no secret why Stalin banned Santa Claus from the Soviet Union; there was only room enough for one personality cult in Uncle Joe's fiefdom.

God is the last refuge of desperate parents. My four-year-old son has mastered the Socratic method of debate with devastating force, and every conversation I have with him lately ends up sounding like this:

"Because God said so, that's why!! Now get to sleep."

I admit that invoking the teleological designs of a Supreme All-Knowing Deity in order to win a debate with a four-year-old over bedtime is just one step away from answering 'Why?' with an angry 'Because!' --but if it gets him into his Pokemon pajamas, that's all that matters.

Identity is a social construct. Here's how four-year-olds play. They have a quick ad hoc meeting at the edge of the playground to decide who they will be before charging off in a suitably Leacockian manner. "Remember! I'm Buzz Lightyear. You're the green Power Ranger. And Aya is a princess. Let's go!"

I tried to convince the parents at the playground to follow suit. "OK, I'm a powerful business magnate! You're a fashion model with a degree in marine biology, and we are on a beach in the French Riviera drinking champagne coolers." But they just looked at me with a mix of fear and pity in their eyes, and backed away slowly.

This Father's Day, my quota of potential philosophical input has doubled with the arrival of a new baby. And now that Alex has a little brother to torment and torture --er, mentor and nurture--I expect the level of dialectical discourse will heighten. I have been watching two-month-old Alister very closely and, near as I can tell, he favours a form of "passive hedonism," one that revolves primarily around bodily functions.

I have much to learn.

Maclean's Magazine
June 17, 2002