Mommy's Pen

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Development

We Do Not Have a Kitchen Table

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We do not have a kitchen table.  We have a table in the dining room.  It is therefore a dining room table.  Call it a kitchen table, and Nora will correct you.

A hamburger bun in not bread. It’s a bun.  Call it bread and Nora will correct you.

Nora does not have gloves. She has mittens. If you ask her to put her gloves on, she will tell you she doesn’t have any.

Nora is not four. She is four-and-a-half. Call her four, and she will swiftly correct your ass.

While it’s tempting to laugh off her demands for precise speech, instead I’m reminding myself that this desire for accuracy is a developmental milestone — and it’s tied to lying. She knows a thing or two about how the world works now, and she knows when someone isn’t telling it like it is.

Nora knows how to lie to get herself out of trouble, but she doesn’t altogether understand lying. At this stage, anything anyone says that isn’t completely accurate is a lie to her. When I call the dining room table a kitchen table, I’m lying; therefore lying must be okay.  This concept is explained quite well in the book Nurture Shock.  (You can read my synopsis of the chapter “Why Kids Lie” here.)  When I read the book about a year ago, I remember thinking I would surely need to revisit the information when Nora began displaying more signs of experimentation with lying.  That time has come, friends.

So, in effort to be a good model of honesty, I take her constant corrections of my speech seriously (albeit with an inner smirk). “Oh my, yes, you’re right. I don’t know what I was thinking.” At this point, explaining the nuance of imprecise speech versus intentional lying would only confuse her — or worse yet, make it sound like lying is justified. So I act confused instead.

Now watch it backfire and she just ends up thinking I’m a complete idiot.

 

The “Love Mist” and Other Phases

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It turns out Nora has been walking around in a “love mist” for her entire life (well, since she could walk, anyway.) This makes perfect sense to me.

Tuesday night was my parent council meeting at Nora’s Waldorf school. The sixth grade teacher gave us the “underground” Waldorf education lecture. Which means it was her take on Waldorf education’s take on child development and how our school meets the changing needs of our children. Now your going to get my version of her version.

The first thing she talked about was the “love mist.” Picture your standard preschooler. She wanders around with a far off look in her eye. She loves faeries, princesses and anything magical. She wants hugs and snuggles and will invent new ways of saying I love you and new ways of making sure she knows you love her. Our job as adults during this phase, which ends around six years old, is to keep her firmly ensconced in that love mist. She needs simple, comforting explanations of the world: bread rises because it’s magical, the stars shine for you. She doesn’t need to know about the uglier aspects. The message should be she’s loved and the whole world is there to support her.

At four-years-old, Nora is definitely still in the love mist. But occasionally, the mist clears and she sees the world. That’s the next phase: entering the world. It usually happens around six. Children will want to see, explore and touch everything real. They want to dig in the dirt, feed the chickens, make a pie. It’s the adults’ job to show them the wonders of the world, but still withhold the ugliest parts.

At about nine-years-old there is another change. After a few years of being in the world, it becomes their world. They see that they are distinct from other people — they may worry that they are alone. Adults must support them and try to keep them calm and secure through the change. It can be a difficult time for parents, as your child is pulling away for the first time. The child is also trying on new personalities before assembling the pieces of their personality. She may be an angel at school and a snarling devil at home. Keep calm and carry on. This is the age when the begin to understand the mechanics of their world as well — for example, bread doesn’t rise unless you remember to put enough yeast in it.

Middle schoolers are ready to learn about the imperfections of the world. They are fascinated by science; they want to be shown everything. And they are unlikely to take anybody’s word for anything. They are realizing that the world might need them, and are incredibly excited by the prospect.

And all of these children co-exist in our school. They are all supported and nurtured through whatever phase they are in. Every teacher is committed to putting kids on a solid foundation and supporting their growth as individuals — and supplying facts and figures in a way they can absorb based on where they are developmentally.

And the thought of that? Puts me right back in the love mist.

Miss Categorization

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Bird

Last night’s bedtime stalling tactic started with this question:

“Mommy, are chickens kinda like birds?”

Huh?

“Chickens are birds,” I said.

“No, they’re not.”

“Yes, chickens are birds. Trust me.”

“No, they aren’t. I know more than you,” said my saucy four-year-old.

“No, you don’t know more about chickens than I do, I’m afraid.  Chickens are birds just like robins and crows.”

“Robins and crows are birds, chickens aren’t. And blue jays are birds.”

Nora has had chickens half of her little life.  Somewhere along the way, she shoved them on a mental shelf separate from birds. Maybe because they don’t fly as well, or because other birds don’t live with us. For whatever reason, she made up her mind and it’s hard for  her re-categorize something she’s believed half of her life — even if two years seems like a short time to the rest of us.

It doesn’t change the fact that chickens are birds. But it was a good reminder for me that we need to keep our minds nimble and willing to assimilate information.

Many adults run around with notions just as silly and in conflict with reality as Nora’s mis-categorization and are just sure they are right. But the consequences for adults are much greater: bigotry, racism, war. If there’s hope for the future, it lies in us being able to re-examine our categorizations against reality from time to time.

Say it with me friends, chickens are birds.

No More “Kiddo”

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Growing up, I was called “Susie.”  Once I reached cynical teenager-hood, I loathed the name.  I didn’t feel it fit me.  I met Ben, and he started calling me “Sue.”

Casting off a childhood nickname is a powerful thing.  It can free you from a role you never agreed to play.  (Have you ever met someone who has completely renamed themselves?  Changed their name to Summer Showers or Cat Rainbow?  Something traumatic is in their past. But I digress.)

Nora has informed Ben and me that she does not want to be called “Kiddo” anymore.  I didn’t realize how often we were doing this until she asked us to stop. We found we couldn’t. The first few days she was constantly reminding us, and now we try to remind each other.

It may seem silly, but I feel it’s very important to honor this request. She’s establishing a sense of herself, and if we ignore that, or don’t take it seriously, what would that tell her?

So, when I forget, she says, “Remember?  I don’t want to be called “Kiddo” anymore.”

“Oh, that’s right.” I say, “I’m sorry, I forgot.  You may have to remind me a few more times.”

“I just want to be called ‘Nora,'” she replies. “That, or ‘Honey Bunny.'”

“Can do, Honey Bunny.  Can do.”

How to Know if Your Child Loves You – An Age by Age Guide

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0-12 Months: She screams like a banshee if anyone but you attempts to touch her, or if her precious backside touches a crib mattress.

12-24 months: Incessant cries of “Mama!  Mama!” populate your waking minutes. You wear earplugs in the shower to drown out the banging on the bathroom door whenever you feel bold enough to perform your ablutions by yourself. 

2 Years: Your child comes to you for comfort after an injustice you have inflicted on her. Examples: Shampoo in the eyes, vaccinations.

3 Years: The time has arrived when your child will look at you sweetly and say, “Mama, I love you.”

4 Years: Your child now tells you in a milk and honey voice, “Mama, I will never kill you.”

Those of you with older children, help me fill out ages 5 and above.

Protest Song

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Nora turns four on Monday.  I am not one of those mothers who gets sad at the thought of her child getting older.  Three quarters of the fun of parenting is watching your child development and grow.

I am, however, in distress over the loss of nap time.

Nora’s napping only about 3 days a week now.   She’s fussier in the evening.  And she’s getting sassy.  This probably has more to do with being four, but I’m sure lack of sleep isn’t helping matters.

Come to my house any given weeknight to witness some variation of the following scene:

“Nora, it’s time to go inside.”

“No, I don’t want to.”

“I know you don’t want to, but it’s time to get ready for bed.  Let’s go.”

 Nora scampers up the steep pile of mulch in the driveway. “I want to stay outside and play.”

“I know you do, but that’s not one of your choices.  Your choices are to take my hand and climb down the pile or get down on your own so we can go in the house.”

“I’ll sing a song about this. I don’t want to go in the house I want to be a fairy on the top of this hill and sing about spring. No one can come near me and bug me because I just like to sit on top of the mound.  When you hear this song that means not to bug me.  Please don’t bug me I just want to be by myself.”

“Five, four, three…”

Nora scampers down and runs for the house.

As you can see, loss of naptime is tiring for everyone.