My 7-Year-Old Won’t Stop Talking About Trains. Am I Doing Something Wrong?
This morning I burned my toast because I was half-paying attention to Leo running through another list of 1950s steam engine weight capacities while I tried to type a reply to my boss about a deadline I’m already late on. The toaster popped, I smelled smoke, and Leo didn’t even pause. “Did you know the Great Western 4-6-0 can go 90 miles per hour?” he said, leaning against the counter, crumbs in his hair, like this was the most important thing I’d hear all day. I said “cool, buddy” while I scraped the black char off the bread, and he asked me again 60 seconds later. Same fact. Same enthusiastic tone. That’s how it goes, most days.
I didn’t think anything of it at first, right? Kids have obsessions. But it’s been four months now, and it’s not just a casual thing. It’s every car ride, every dinner, every time we have anyone over. Last week we went to the grocery store, and he cornered a silver-haired lady by the baked beans. She was nice at first, nodding, saying “wow that’s interesting” but then she clearly had places to be, kept shifting her bag from one hand to the other, and I had to go over and gently tug him away, apologizing the whole time, my cheeks hot. I got him in the car and I may have snapped a little, said “you can’t just talk to strangers about trains forever, that’s rude.” He just looked at me like I’d kicked his favorite stuffed bear, didn’t say anything the whole way home. I felt terrible the rest of the day.
Of course I Googled it, like any anxious parent does at 11pm when the house is quiet and my brain won’t turn off. “Obsessive conversations in kids” I typed, and all these scary words popped up: OCD, autism spectrum, social skills deficit. I read one post that said you have to redirect immediately, don’t let them fixate on one thing, it’s unhealthy. Another said it’s totally normal, it’s just how their little brains process intense excitement, and shutting it down is cruel. I went to bed more confused than when I started. I called my mom the next day to ask, did I ever do this? She laughed and said oh yeah, you talked about that stupid Rugrats theory where Angelica is dead for three whole weeks. I just nodded when you talked. I didn’t get it, but it mattered to you, so it mattered to me. That didn’t really fix my worry, but it took a little edge off.
The parent-teacher conference last month didn’t help, though. His teacher pulled me aside after, said she notices he talks about trains during quiet reading time, over and over, even when the other kids are clearly not interested. Some of them have started moving seats away from him at recess. She said it’s not a big deal yet, just something to be aware of, work on social cues. I just stood there holding my half-empty coffee cup, nodding, not knowing what to say. I want him to have friends. I don’t want him to be the weird kid no one sits with at lunch. But I also don’t want to tell him his favorite thing in the whole world is wrong, that he shouldn’t talk about it. That feels cruel, right?
I tried something on Saturday, when I didn’t have any work to do, turned my phone off and left it in another room. I sat down on the floor of his room with him, and said “okay, show me all your trains. Tell me everything you want to tell me.” He has this beat-up notebook he got from the dollar store, all covered in crayon drawings of train engines, little scribbled facts he copied out of the big library book he checks out every single week. He talked for 22 minutes, I counted, because I was curious. He pointed out every drawing, explained why the Black Five is his favorite: how it’s not too big, not too small, just right for pulling all kinds of cars. I asked him a couple of questions, mostly just “what’s cool about that one?” When he was done, he closed the notebook, got up, and went to play Barbies with his little sister, and didn’t mention trains once for almost two and a half hours. That’s when I realized something: half the time he keeps repeating the same facts because I’m only half-listening. I’m scrolling, I’m cooking, I’m thinking about my to-do list, and he can tell, so he just keeps talking until he gets my full attention.
That doesn’t mean I do it every day, obviously. Some days I’m exhausted, I have a headache, I just can’t sit through 20 minutes of train facts. Last night I was watching that new show I’ve been waiting for, after the kids went to bed, and he snuck out of his room, pajamas all wrinkled, and said “mom, I forgot to tell you, the Black Five has a different boiler than the 8F class.” I just said “buddy, it’s bedtime. Can that wait until tomorrow?” He just turned around and walked back to his room, and I sat there through the whole episode feeling guilty, like I missed a chance.
I still lie awake sometimes worrying. I still don’t know if this is a phase that’ll pass, or if it’s something I need to “fix.” I know all the people online say to celebrate your kid’s passions, and I do, I really do. I think it’s amazing that he can remember all those facts, that he cares this deeply about something. Most days I can’t even remember what I went to the kitchen to get, so that feels like a superpower to me. But it’s still awkward sometimes. It’s still annoying when I’m busy. I still don’t know how to teach him that other people don’t care as much as I do, without making him feel wrong for caring.
Yesterday we were at the park, and that same lady from the grocery store came up to us. She was walking her little terrier, and she said “you’re the little boy who told me about the steam trains, right?” She said she went home and looked them up, because she used to ride a Black Five to her grandma’s house when she was 10, every summer. She and Leo sat on the park bench for 20 minutes talking about it, while I ate a melted cherry popsicle and watched. I had that little soft moment where I thought, okay, maybe this isn’t an emergency. Maybe it’s just Leo.
But I still won’t lie and say I have it all figured out. I still cringe when he starts in on trains in front of new people. I still Google it once a month when I’m anxious. I guess that’s just being a parent, right? You don’t get all the answers. You just scrape the burnt toast off, and nod most of the time, and hope for the best. (1127 words)
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