My son is 15 months old now: not a baby; not yet a toddler, to paraphrase Ms. Spears during her Sexy Virgin phase. I say, “her phase”, perhaps I should say “the phase deemed financially most lucrative by exploitative parents and music industry moguls and therefore assigned to a naïve barely-adult starlet primed for fame-grabbing from her poor excuse of a childhood”. But that would be very long-winded, and I’m sure nobody wants to read it.
My point is that my son is now in that strange, transitional phase going from babyhood to toddlerhood. We haven’t quite reached the point of serious toddler meltdowns, although I have had to stop myself from laughing at the odd occasion when he has thrown himself dramatically on the floor before slapping it once or twice when I haven’t let him do something vitally important to his day – sticking his fingers in plug sockets, for example. He has, however, gained a good deal more independence. It seems an odd thing to say about somebody who cannot be left alone unless hemmed in by sturdy cot bars, but to him the world of unassisted walking and being able to reach the tops of low-level cupboards is a dizzying and open-ended world of wonder.
I know I’ve got the most difficult stages of toddlerhood yet to come, but so far, this stage is phenomenally fun, especially when compared to the newborn stage of total exhaustion and post-birth pain. He is happier, and so I am happier. I can also walk without looking like a low-class John Wayne impersonation, so that helps. The best part, however, is his joy. As with every emotion, every sensation he experiences, it is incredibly intense. Toddlers don’t exactly have a big frame of reference, so it is to be expected, but being able to witness it every day with him is a tremendous pleasure and privilege.
I don’t tend to worry that I can’t make him giggle the way his father or grandparents can. Mothers are not generally the ‘funny’ ones, and when his Daddy or Nana are making him giggle hysterically, he likes to be able to reach out and hold my hand, just occasionally looking up at me with a sweet wonder in his perfect blue eyes. I’m not sure whether he’s sharing the moment with me or just looking for reassurance, but either way I quite like my role as his touchstone.
Raising babies is incredibly hard work, brutal at times. I like to remind myself of the intensity of his joy when I struggle with the intensity of his need for me, or his sadness, or frustration, or the powerful sense of “FOMO” he already seems to have that stops him from wanting to sleep. The raucous, throaty chuckles, and the big toothy grins are a balm to me. They’re a pay-off. As such, I’d like to pay tribute here to the things that make my son laugh in the most exuberant of fashions – a full-on, head thrown back, whole body shaking, face creased with mirth outburst of joy and hilarity.
1. Daddy pretending to be a dog and allowing him to pat his head.
2. Nana pretending to fall over (actually, anybody falling over is good, but her falls are the most spectacular).
3. Grandad picking him up over his head and pretending to eat his belly.
4. Lifting Daddy’s shirt and slapping his belly (the little Chad is learning to body-shame early, it would seem).
5. Standing stock still in a completely silent library and unloading a series of loud, wet farts in front of the two elderly gentlemen trying to read newspapers in peace. The first was an accident. The following four were not.
As adults we have to accept that we don’t experience the world the way a child does. That is no bad thing. Personally, I’m glad I don’t have an intense fear of the hand-held vacuum cleaner, and that I don’t experience a feeling akin to heartbreak when I eat the last of my biscuits (okay, that is a lie, I absolutely feel that). Witnessing a toddler’s raw, instinctive intensity can be a good reminder of two things:
First, that we are adults. We’ve had a lot longer to learn to control our impulses and our expression, and self-control is the first step towards contentment. No need to lash out or catastrophise, but instead we can use our experience to manage difficulties without throwing a paddy in the middle of Aldi when we would rather be anywhere else. Second, somewhat contradictorily, isn’t it wonderful to embrace joy? Isn’t it fantastic to throw yourself into the things you love, and to really enjoy your time with the people in your life who matter to you, and whom you adore. That love itself creates happiness and adds layers of pleasure to the things we do. It acts as a balm to our wounds and gives us better reasons to live well.
At least, that’s what I’ll tell myself at 3am tomorrow when I’m sat next to a cot, nerve in my armpit getting trapped as I lean over the bar to hold a sweet and tiny hand, desperately praying for its equally sweet and tiny owner to go back to sleep. Swings and roundabouts, as they say.
The sweetness of it all. Thank you. It reminds me of how I felt about my brother and sister when they were that age.