Nature, Nuture, Spiders and Steps

I’m frightened by a fair amount of things. Heights, deep water, falling, and even the dark, in certain situations. And then there are those fears that kind of make no sense when you think about them rationally; cockroaches, wild mice, slugs and worms. Urgh, worms. I am ridiculously cautious, to the point of my own exasperation. I am a Murphy’s Law abiding, worst-case-scenario dwelling, afraid of my own shadow scaredy-cat.

This being the case, I have said from the beginning that Paul can take care of the physical, slugs and snails, slightly dangerous kind of stuff. Because Paul is the cheese to my cracker, the apple to my cinnamon, the pen on my parchment. We complement each other perfectly and I would have thought that with our powers combined, we’d have this parenting thing sussed. Public speaking may make him faint from fear but that man will race a truck up a cliff then abseil back down again. I figured that Paul can show Alice what fearlessness looks like, what excitement and adrenaline and confidence in your body’s ability looks like, and I’d show her how to rock a crowd with her art.

And then, of course, Alice asserted herself as an actual person and all that went out the window.

I’ve always felt that fear was a ‘nurture’ thing. Beyond the innate reflexes that babies are born with, I’ve always believed being afraid of something, like heights or worms or the dark, was a learnt response through experience or lack thereof.

I didn’t want Alice to learn a fear of heights from me, or a fear of deep water, or any of the less rational and equally unhelpful fears I have. So I tried my hardest to not share these parts of myself with her, not while she’s basing so much of her opinion of the world on what I do. But ‘be careful’ inevitably slips out. Often, as it would with any toddler, right?
And Alice IS afraid of these things, and more. She’s afraid of heights and dogs and caterpillars and puppets and steps. She panics on uneven ground if an adult isn’t nearby to help. The happiest moment of my parenting life was when she jumped from the ottoman to the couch, but there has been no climbing a ladder past the second rung without someone close by.

Is my saying ‘be careful’ when she’s on the edge of a fall the reason Alice still slides down steps on her bottom? Is it why she doesn’t climb, pretty much ever? Is it why she doesn’t enjoy slides? That last one breaks my fearful little heart. I find myself thinking quite often, ‘have I literally damaged my daughter?’ Is she so cautious because I’ve taught her to be so?

About now is when some of you will be thinking that I should stop complaining and be grateful I don’t have ‘a climber’, ‘a runner’, ‘a jumper’ or ‘a child that wants to know what snails taste like’. But every early childhood teacher knows that this is how children learn. We have the ‘learn through movement’ sermon dictated to us from day one. Apparently, ALL children have the natural desire to push the limits physically, so why doesn’t mine?
Furthermore, if they don’t get the opportunity to express this desire, they will have stunted development and delayed learning. This is pretty much a direct quote from a number of text books. Talk about pressure! So you see? Alice’s behaviour is the exact anti-thesis of the learning, growing, developing child! And to think that I may have had a hand in creating that behaviour is frightfully saddening.

I find a little solace, funnily enough, in the fact that Alice is also afraid of spiders. I don’t know who would have taught her this but it wasn’t Paul and it certainly wasn’t me. I talk to spiders, complimenting them on their lovely long legs. Could she have taken my ‘be gentle’ warning the wrong way, maybe, thinking that she’s not allowed to touch spiders because they’ll hurt her, not the other way around? Who knows. But the fact that spiders make her nervous leads me to believe that her cautious behaviour is inbuilt. It’s personality, it’s essence, it’s part of what makes her brilliant.
And if this is the case, I can totally cope with that. As time goes on she can spend more time on the farm with Paul, experiencing the world through his tenacious, adventurous energy; it might just be that her naturally cautious approach will mean she will never forget her helmet.

Dear 2016

Hello 2016!

I saw you in asleep, sorry about that. It’s not that I wasn’t excited about your arrival, not at all! You know how it is though, a solid few hours of sleep is mythical gold for parents of young children. So when I went to bed at ten, I wished you safe travels through time, and when I was awoken at two, I saw you had slipped in unnoticed. Thanks for tiptoeing!

Your arrival is full of promise for me, did you know that? Of course you do, in some generic, stereotypical way. Your arrival is full of promise and hope for a lot of people. A strange sort of relief, too, much of the time. There must be a lot of pressure on you and I know that sometimes it’ll be impossible for you to deliver, and that’s okay. I understand.

A lot has happened in my little world that you will need to catch up on. 2015 did her best to guarantee she was remembered, that’s for sure. Did she tell you? I started a new job, I studied te reo Maori, I went to Melbourne. I lost 20 kilos (more on that later), found one thousand dollars and cut off my hair. We adopted five chickens, Paul and I celebrate five glorious years together and we bought a TV. My niece went home, I married people on mountains, and I lost my grandmother. These things will impact our relationship, I know that. You will see emotion and loose ends and repercussions from events that you had nothing to do with. I'll do my best to keep you up to speed and not blame you.

And of course, Alice did some amazing stuff. Did you know she isn’t a baby anymore? I know this because she negotiates with me. The next step for both of us is to navigate through these head waters that are the second year (dun dun duuun…) and emerge into young childhood smiling. This will happen in your year, 2016, you lucky thing. You will get to watch every tantrum (Alice’s and mine), hear every ‘I love you’, and see every time I fail. I know you won’t be too judgy…

For me, your arrival brings the possibility for new beginnings and new challenges. I feel that I’m right on the edge of ‘next’. For too long now I’ve been treading water, stuck in the same place while I figure out the balance between family and work and not going mental. Well, I need next.
And I think you’ve got it.

I know you’ve got a lot on your place at the moment, 2016. Resolutions will be flying in from left right and centre. You’re almost like the Cosmic Santa for personal improvement. My goodness, where are you actually going to store all that quit sugar? Well, I don’t need much from you, I plan on doing the work and find the ‘next’ that you carry myself. Teaching will challenge me, my family will thrive, and I will focus once again on trying to enjoy who I am, inside and out. I will make sure of it.
What I need from you, 2016, is for you to be understanding and gentle. Please? Some time to reflect and gather my thoughts would be so, so lovely (2015 managed to find a little time to spare, but I don’t think 2014 knew what ‘peace’ was!). Being on the edge of ‘next’ is exciting but scary, too, and it would be nice to know that a timeframe as substantial as yourself is on my side.

Well, I best be going, and you, too, no doubt. I hope this letter finds you well! Thank you, by the way, for a fabulous first day. First impressions really do matter, after all! I so look forward to getting to you.

With love,

T.