My 7-year-old only talks about garbage trucks and I’m starting to lose it
I’m writing this with half-burnt toast still sitting on my counter, because ten minutes ago I was too busy nodding vaguely while my 7-year-old walked me through the exact sequence of events that happens when a garbage truck picks up a bin to actually remember to pull my bread out before it smoked. This isn’t new. It’s been three months of garbage trucks. Three months of every conversation, no matter where we are or who we’re with, looping back around to rear loaders, grapple arms, electric garbage trucks that are better for the environment, and that one time a garbage truck stopped at the end of our street and the driver waved at him. I used to think “obsessive kid conversations” were just something other people complained about, like toddler tantrums in Target. Now I get it. I get the panic when you see another parent pull up for a playdate and you just know your kid is going to corner them before they even take their coat off.
Last week I had parent-teacher conferences. I spent the whole walk over reminding him: we’re going to talk to Ms. Henderson about your reading, okay? You can ask her one question about garbage trucks, that’s it. He nodded, he said he got it. Ten minutes into the conference, Ms. Henderson was showing me his drawing of a forest, and he just cut her off mid-sentence: “Did you know the average garbage truck drives 25,000 miles a year?” I wanted to slide off my chair and under the little blue table the kids keep their crayons on. Ms. Henderson was nice, she smiled and said “That’s very interesting, Noah,” and tried to get back to his reading level. Two minutes later: “Do you know what happens to all the trash after the garbage truck takes it?” I kept apologizing, I kept trying to redirect him, but he just doesn’t care. He has this fact, he needs to share it. It’s like if he doesn’t say it out loud to someone, it doesn’t count.
Last month we were checking out at the grocery store, and the cashier, a sweet old lady who’s seen us come in every week for years, asked him how school was. “Good. Do you know garbage trucks can crush a car if they want to?” She laughed, and said “No kidding?” and that was it, he leaned over the conveyor belt and talked for three straight minutes while I packed the groceries and the people behind us coughed and shifted their weight. I wanted to die. I kept saying “Okay, buddy, let’s go, the lady’s busy,” but he just talked louder, like I wasn’t even there.
I’ve read all the things online, you know. People say it’s normal, it’s how kids process new interests, it’s a sign of a curious brain. That’s great. That’s all true, probably. But that doesn’t make it any less exhausting when you’ve heard the same 12 facts 1200 times. I snapped at him last Sunday. We were at my mom’s house for dinner, and he was asking my uncle for the 10th time if he’d ever driven a garbage truck, and I just said, sharp, “Noah. Enough. We’ve all heard this today.” He stopped talking immediately, just went and sat in the corner by the Christmas tree (my mom leaves it up too late, don’t judge) and didn’t say a word the rest of the night. I felt awful. I went and sat with him after dinner, and he said “You don’t want to hear about my garbage trucks,” and I wanted to cry. Because I am his mom, I’m supposed to want to hear everything, right?
Then last Saturday I was so tired from work, I didn’t have the energy to fight it or redirect or pretend to listen while I thought about laundry. I just said, “You know what? Let’s go drive around the city early. Garbage trucks come through downtown early on Saturdays, right? Let’s go find some.” He couldn’t believe it. We got in the car in our pajamas, got glazed donuts on the way, drove around for an hour and a half. We saw four different garbage trucks: a rear loader, a front loader, one of the new electric ones, and a little pickup that picks up yard waste. He took 72 blurry photos with my old phone, narrated everything the whole time, pointed out every cracked tail light and rusted grapple arm. When we got home, he ran inside and showed my partner all the photos, and then… he started building a Lego castle. He didn’t mention garbage trucks again for almost three whole hours. I sat on the couch drinking coffee, and I thought, oh. It’s not that he wants to annoy me. He just wants me to care as much as he does. He doesn’t want half my attention while I fold laundry. He wants all of it, for just a little while.
I still don’t have it figured out. Some days I still snap. Some days I still zone out when he starts talking about hydraulic lifts, and I feel bad about it later. Last night he came out of his room at 9:30, half asleep, just to tell me that most new garbage trucks have backup cameras now. I was halfway through an episode of my show, and I just said “That’s awesome, buddy, go to sleep,” and shut the door. I lay there afterward feeling guilty, but also… tired. I’m just a person, not a perfect parent.
I think this phase will pass. My sister told me her son was obsessed with volcanos for a year and a half, and now he can’t be bothered to tell you what a volcano is unless it’s in a video game. I’ll probably forget most of the garbage truck facts in a few years, anyway. The only thing I’ll remember is how excited he got when we went looking for them that Saturday, how his hand shook a little when he took a photo because he was so happy. That’s the part that sticks, I guess. Even if I still can’t tell you the difference between a rear loader and a front loader, no matter how many times he’s told me. (Word count: 1182)
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