My brother sent me a video clip of my niece the other day.
“Great, Ashley. You’ve successfully bored me with the first sentence. Well done.”
-Someone in the audience
“Aw, c’mon. Give her a chance!”
-Someone I planted in audience fully expecting that’d be said
A chunky ball of glee and fat yet, she’s maybe a year and some change. And – in the video – as she lost balance, toppled over, and was about to cry, she paused halfway into her tears with a “HMMM!” and a furrowed brow. She was gauging the situation and trying to determine just how to emotionally react. Naturally, she looked at her mother who was behind the camera, who – of course – spoke up in response. I heard her encouragingly say, “Can you get up? Get up!” This is the usual M.O. And naturally, I do what anyone would do – and try to imagine myself into the situation. Do you run to comfort a kid during every fall? Or does that just teach them how to wallow? Which not-a-big deal feelings is it appropriate to bulldoze over and which should we stop and console kids about? Is there a happy medium?
These aren’t rhetorical questions. I ain’t a baby owner myself.
But a couple things today made me contemplate what I thought I knew a bit deeper.
Especially when I see facebook posts about new moms being vilified for the way they’re raising their tots.
My answer arrived two-fold this morning – starting with that video. Because after Cayden’s (that’s her name – my niece) “HMM!” and her mom’s response, I noticed something. Like a Pavlovian response, my sister-in-law’s request that she get up ‘n dust the dirt off her shoulders was met with a faster than usual response by my niece… to do exactly that. She stood right up. The anguish was forgotten. A memory so distant it could’ve been a dream. Her mom wasn’t helping her wallow in the suffering of falling down. And she wasn’t laughing like I see so many parents do. She was helping her redirect her focus onto the solution: stand up again and you won’t be fallen. Keep trying and you’ll get better at not falling.
Then at midmorning I saw (or “heard”, really) this theme unravel with another un-related family: my neighbors. Every morning and every night I hear the veteran dad who lives above me cheering on his little boy during his beleaguering journey to the third floor – on two tiny legs while encumbered with the weight of a Spiderman backpack: “Come on! Come on! Let’s go! You’re so fast!” At first, I was judgmental and thought, “Poor kid! Stop pushing him so hard”.
That was when I noticed something.
Laughter.
His dad’s not playing the role of pointless, joyless drill sergeant like the scene outta Royal Tenenbaums.
No. He’s making it a fun strength game.
And the boy’s giggling says it all – he’s enjoying the challenge, the bonding experience, and the validation from dad for hard work. This process of unintentional auditory voyeurism might interrupt my work a bit, but it’s worth it – ’cause it always kinda makes me smile. Plus, today, it made for good blog fodder. I’m not parent material myself. In fact, my kid would probably still be sat at the bottom of the stairs now, pouting with me as a ready and willing enabler. (“Honey, would you like me to bring your supper, iphone, ipad, and VersionNextGoogleGlasses that aren’t even on the market yet but I bought them for you anyway… all down to you? So you don’t have to mount these stairs? Ever?”). In fact, I don’t even have to get hyperbolic. If I’m babysitting, you have no bedtime because I have no spine when it comes to kids. At least other people’s. (How’s that for a business pitch?)
So, I totally enjoy seeing the ones who are good parents… from a safe distance separated by walls or water bodies.
And speaking of distance, it doesn’t take much distance to realize that whole “differences make us similar” thing.
There was this cool documentary I saw part of once – spotlighting how faraway tribes respond differently to general life-circumstances, including child rearing. For instance, you or I might be horrified – or at the very least, unsettled – to see a mother take a drag and blow it into her baby’s face. Yet, there’s this aborigine group across the planet that does exactly that – ritualistically – for every newborn that makes its way into their tribe.
“Here, hit this. I think it’s your turn.”
“Of course it’s my turn. The rotation is only two people.”
“Haaaah. I’m fuh’d up. This shit GOOD.”
Unlike what I’m suggesting above (protip: don’t wrap your infant in a Swisher and immolate him, please), the smoking ceremony isn’t an excuse to get high – but meant to cleanse the soul or ward away evil or something of that nature. I’d accept you chastising me for not knowing, but that feeling you’re having is actually the same I had watching the doc. Much like none of us really know why we get birthday gifts (consolation prize for being alive?), these people kind of brainfarted at first when asked why they even did it. Tradition seemed to be the common reply. It’s such a perfunctory part of their culture, that they kinda mindlessly do it. As the whole spectacle unfolds, the atmosphere and mood could easily be a reality show episode about women doing chores as they gossip about why N’dukTu’kntdwtpnkwqt (the village stud) hasn’t come by to plant more babies in them to smoke.
It’s how they live. And the babies are fine. They grow up and live long lives with fine respiratory tracts.
No, my point isn’t that we should install shisha nurseries.
It’s that when you kinda step back from what you think you know, you can comprehend that whole sameness/difference thing we share a bit better. All families – regardless of culture or proximity to one another – are kinda like worldwide tribes that differ in how they try to help their young thrive, but are similar in that they all want that same end-goal. Whether they’re your neighbors, blood relatives, or loincloth donning baby fumigators from another land, nobody knows a little sentient meat nugget better than the overlord chefs who baked and brought them into this world. So while the “customs” of that strange mother in the waiting room might seem odd to you or me – short of any obvious abuse – our judgment’s mutually irrelevant in how they’re reared. (Yes, I see she’s breastfeeding him. And, yes, I see he’s six years old. Let it go, darling.)
I know for me, it took looking (and listening) twice to get that.
And maybe the sweet, blissful bias that is the gift of remaining childless.