Hitting hurdles

As I drove to collect Miss I from daycare after work last Monday I felt satisfied. I’d had a productive day at the office, interviewed a particularly interesting subject and was looking forward to collecting my bundle of laughs. It wasn’t that I was high-fiving myself but I was, momentarily, feeling on top of things. After an enormous cuddle and excited chatter I was herding Miss I to the door when her lovely teacher stopped me for a chat. I was thrilled to hear the issue du jour was not a repeat of a few weeks earlier.

You see, for two days about a month ago, Mr G and I had to confront the unpleasant possibility that together we might be raising a violent sociopath; Miss I embarked upon a hitting spree at daycare. Apparently she was striking her peers regularly, most often with a solid object in her hand, and lest she give her poor victims the opportunity to protect themselves she was approaching them from behind. This also effectively circumvented any chance her peers had to raise their hands and say ‘stop’ as they’re taught to do when someone encroaches their personal space. 

Upon hearing of this uncharacteristic and unbecoming conduct I was shocked, embarrassed and extremely hopeful it was an isolated occurrence. After dropping her off the next morning I sat at my desk hoping Miss I’s classmates were having a more peaceful day. After a few hours had passed I rang for an update. Naturally I was hoping the teacher would say Miss I had morphed back into her incredibly-bossy-yet-incredibly-gentle-self. Sadly, the verdict wasn’t great. 

The frequency with which she was hitting had escalated, and now, not only was she whacking her friends more but she was waiting for the teacher’s full attention before doing so and then smiling at the teacher whilst proceeding with her brutal ways. Oh excellent. The possibility that Miss I was actually a violent reprobate posing as an otherwise delightful toddler suddenly felt real. And, naturally, quite terrifying. I fretted all afternoon and dreaded the pick-up, fearing the police, DOCS and angry parents, would all be awaiting my arrival. To my delight they weren’t. And even better, Miss I’s delinquent streak had failed to reappear after her lunchtime nap. Phew. There may still be hope. The weekend beckoned and progressed without incident as did the following week and the one after that.

But when I was stopped last Monday my stomach immediately lurched. Had Miss I’s aggressive alter ego reappeared?? Fortunately not. Instead her teacher wanted to talk to me about some minor concerns she has with Miss I’s language*. She gets some sounds mixed up and is quite stubborn when anyone tries to correct her. I hadn’t really thought too much about it. Honestly I had been thinking her speech was improving every day and just assumed she was on track for her age. When her teacher gently suggested otherwise I immediately wanted to wrap Miss I in soft, warm, cotton wool for the next thirty years. It sounds ridiculous but it felt like a tiny part of the real world was descending on my little girl and I wanted it to stop. Speech is one of life’s more essential skills and the idea that we were somehow letting Miss I down in this vital department and the remote possibility she might need some intervention, cracked my heart. Into a thousand pieces.

I should say the teacher did not say ‘You are obviously neglecting your daughter’s development’ or ‘I have grave concerns about your daughter’s language’ or ‘I am not sure you are properly equipped for the role of fostering a human being from baby to adulthood’. But she might as well have.  For me, the impact of the conversation was so much bigger than the words themselves. Part of the beauty of life with a small person is the innocence and simplicity of their days. If they are blessed with a home and loving carers, many toddlers live in a rather beautiful bubble without a care in the world. As long as there are cuddles, milk, songs, the occasional cupcake and The Night Garden, most two year olds I know are pretty thrilled. Obviously as they grow up that changes. Their needs become more complex with each birthday and the potential for problems bigger than missing seeing Macca Pacca go to bed slowly emerge.

That’s what struck - and scared me - last Monday.  The teacher’s caring and casual comments reminded me that one day, sooner than I will want, Miss I will emerge from the blissful bubble where we can take care of her every need. She’s hardly on the cusp of packing her bags and leaving home but these little obstacles are proof that she is on the cusp of another significant transition. From baby to child. Gradually along that road there are going to be more and more little hurdles that Mr G and I can’t clear for her; we can hold her hand and offer love and support to help her negotiate whatever pops up but we won’t always be able to take that leap. She will have to.

And that, my dear readers, is rather scary. Obviously not as scary as having a violent delinquent in our care but daunting all the same. If you have kids can you relate to my reaction? Are you ever overwhelmed by the reality of preparing a person for life?

*The teacher also wanted to let me know about another development in Miss I’s behaviour. At clean up time rather than pitching in and helping to pack away the toys she does one of two things. She either lies down and pretends to be asleep or stands as still as a statue pretending she can’t hear or see what is happening. Her final act, once there is only a single toy remaining, she magically awakes from her slumber or breaks free from her statue pose to collect the last item and then looks, expectantly, at her teachers for praise and glory. I talked to Miss I about this and the next afternoon asked her if she had helped pack up the toys that day. Her response? “No Mummy. I go night night". Cunning with a penchant for physical abuse. Clearly we are kicking parenting goals...