we grow not like a flower blooming, so what’s innermost becomes what’s outermost, but like trees, our earliest structures and twists shaping what comes after, hidden beneath the bark.
Sometimes I think we build time in order to escape that raw forever. Sometimes I think we spend our whole lives trying to get back there: chasing castles on hills and green lights at the end of piers and various visions of God. When you are caring for a child—and I think this is especially and particularly true when caring for your own child, in that daily, inescapable way I never managed when I was, for example, visiting with my sister’s children when they were young—you find yourself, every day, in their full and awake presence. And in the presence of what you were, when you were the seed crystal of yourself.
That sensation is… not always comfortable! Back then we were scared and back then we were hungry and back then we wanted as if there was nothing else in the universe and we couldn’t do anything about any of it, not because we were not strong or stable enough, or did not have enough fine motor control, or language, but because we did not quite yet know that these overwhelming feelings could pass, can pass, do pass. We did not know there was such a world as after. But also back then we could stare in awe, forever, at the underside of an iron table outside Au Bon Pain in Harvard Square, at the leaves and the sky through the diamond spaces between the metal. We could stare forever, even if we only stared for five minutes, or two—because the distinction between two minutes and five and forever was not so firmly wrought.
You start to see the children in other people, and in yourself. Humans on the whole seem less fundamentally good or evil and more tired, hungry, thirsty, asserting their independence from mommy / daddy / nurse, needing care, navigating this or that difficult transition, being unexpectedly, breathtakingly kind. It’s not like seeing The Matrix, this weird new vision doesn’t suddenly explain everything, and it certainly doesn’t excuse everything—one reason we try to help one another grow up is that a toddler with the tools of a grown being is a dangerous creature, to themselves and to others. But still, reading parenting books and connecting them with my experience, I gasp—the way you do when a physical therapist finds just the right place to push, or when the couch-and-chair kind of therapist asks just this one innocent question. Oh. Oh, that’s how it is.
Take transitions, for example. (This particular bit is from Tovah Klein’s How Toddlers Thrive.) Toddlers tend to have trouble with state transitions—from playing to eating, from eating to storytime, and of course the big transition to sleep. The problem is (Klein says, and I buy it) one of control, and time. We understand the now, we understand what is in front of us and around us. We understand that we are right here with a book or a toy sheep, and we are comfortable. Even when we don’t like the now, we know it. We can navigate.
The next, though, that’s a problem. That’s an issue. Who knows what happens next? Anything could be out there! In fact, the very prospect of next, the fact that there is such a creature, suggests that we don’t actually have as much control of now as we like to think. Next undermines us. So we cling to now. In those moments, it falls to the parents to help the child through the arc: begin with sympathy for the emotion—of course you want to keep reading, you were happy there, of course you don’t want to get up and sit down for a meal, of course, you have some measure of control and comfort in this moment in this uncertain world and you don’t want to go to bed, because who knows what happens tomorrow—and then, once sympathy and empathy have been established, offer structure. This is what we have to do now. And: continuity.
I’m still here for you. I love you.
So there I am, at my dining room table, reading this Tovah Klein book on a Sunday night, up too late, in the pandemic, still, not wanting to go to bed, because tomorrow I have to get up at six thirty if I want to write before parenting, and then there’s parenting, and then the same thing tomorrow, and the day after, and if I just stay here, reading about toddlers and their transition difficulties, I will know what’s going on, and be happy. And my chest is suddenly tight. Because I still don’t want to get up. Because who knows what comes next.
...
This makes me think, too, about these little magic mirrors we carry in our pockets or pocketbooks or leave on the table in arm’s reach, about our phones, that is, about all the many ways they talk to us and remind us that they exist. I think about email and slack and SMS and the tweets and the facebooks and instagrams, how they’re always there, how unless we’re careful and clear in our boundaries, they never stop talking to us. I’ve read no end of “distraction crit,” those essays and eleven-chapter books about how what we really need is focus, freedom from the device’s interruptions. I eat that stuff like I eat Thin Mints—too many of them, too fast, because they feel too much like exactly what I want. I want to spend more time in maker time, I want to spend more time in Deep Work, in Flow. I don’t want to get Hijacked by Evolutionary Plains Ape Survival Strategies that don’t match with what I Need to Do as a Knowledge Worker in the Modern Economy.
But: maybe it’s not just the distraction. Maybe it’s not just the evolutionary plains ape whatever. Maybe the phone’s buzzes and dings and pop-up notifications offer not so much interruption as the promise of a life without transitions—a life without time. If we’re in some sense always on email, we never have to get off email and go do something else. If we’re always on Twitter, we never have to put Twitter away. No matter how awful we feel, we are always in that place, which means we always are. There we are seen, and remembered, and loved. However much we are, at the same time and in the same place and sometimes even by the same people and devices, hated.
Of course, your phone does not love you. But it can kick out a little picture of a heart every once in a while, which makes you feel good, because in second grade you cut one just like that out of a piece of rough red construction paper. We are not complicated creatures.
Often, a toddler doesn’t need more than a kiss. A word, a calming touch. To be lifted. To be hugged in a way that doesn’t make them feel they’re falling. “I know how you feel. I get it. I feel that way too sometimes. And we’re in this together.” “I love you.” “I’m right here.”
It’s shattering to realize how little we need, and how much.
--Max Gladstone: Under The Table, Inside The Tree
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