Connections

Letting kids take the lead

We lived in Hollywood when Connor was a baby - an hour or three away from Ed’s parents, depending on traffic. They had two other grandchildren from Ed’s younger sister who weren’t babies anymore, so our house got at least once-a-month visits from my parents-in-law. Valerie has always been a phenomenal grandmother, and could usually be found on the floor next to the baby, patiently reading a book out loud or building with blocks until Connor cautiously, curiously joined her. It never really took more than about twenty minutes for those two to be fast friends again, mostly I think because Valerie understood that to a baby she was a stranger, and because she didn’t see her grandchild every day, she just assumed she’d be reintroducing herself each time they visited.

Ed Sr. generally spent those early visits letting someone else hold Connor while he said hello, but the following year, when he was struggling with cancer, he began to make an effort to forge his own connections with his grandchild. Those attempts were almost always less successful than his wife’s were because he expected there to be recognition straight away, and it frustrated him when the toddler would run to me instead of wanting to go to Bapa. He never said it out loud, but I sometimes felt like he judged me for letting Connor cling to me, as if I was getting in the way of his relationship with his grandchild.

And yet, there was an entirely memorable visit when Ed Sr. was no longer able to move without help, and he sat on the floor with a giant picture book in front of him. Connor crawled over to see the pictures and Ed Sr. began to read. At one point the baby plopped a diapered booty right in the middle of a page while Bapa pointed to animals, and when they’d discovered all there was to see, Ed Sr. would say “clear,” and Connor swung off the page and let Bapa turn to the next one. It became a game that they played together, but it only happened when my father-in-law stopped being the driving force in the relationship, and instead, let the child lead them to a partnership.

Something similar happened after my husband began working in the Yukon six months a year for a decade that began when our youngest child was two. Ed would come home to a world where one grade had ended, a whole summer had gone by, and a new grade was already well under way. Six months to us was half a year, but to the kids it was practically a lifetime, and no amount of Yukon visits over the summer could make up for all the growing, changing, and becoming they were doing without him. Ed’s re-entry into his life was hard enough with so much time spent at a mine site in the wilderness, and the kids rarely made it easier. They defaulted their questions to me, and I could see each “Mom!” land like a blow on their dad who was standing right there. Eventually they’d all settle back into a routine of parenting and being parented, but inevitably, the most successful re-entries were the ones when Ed just sort of came back and did his thing - unpacking his bags, re-inhabiting the house, telling stories at the dinner table of his work with the gold miners - letting our kids observe their dad instead of having to interact. It usually only took a couple of days until the kids were sharing their own stories, comfortable again with the person they loved but had to relearn.

My best friends and I all had children within about a five year span, and we’ve tried to get everyone together every year or two, renting a big house together, or spreading everyone out between two of our mothers’ houses. The kids never seemed to hold back with each other, falling into easy conversation and running off to play, but it always took a day or two before the adults could interact with anyone else’s kids in a meaningful way. Even now, the most successful dinner party conversations involving the kids are the ones when they can sit and observe the table first, learning the people from their mannerisms and stories. Then later, when questions are asked of them, they’re much more likely to let themselves be drawn into full conversations instead of just giving polite answers before quietly slipping away.

Maybe we’re all like that, but we’ve learned to mask our inherent wariness behind friendly small talk as we figure out the person in front of us. Trust is a survival skill that we begin to discover as infants from our parents’ arms, building it through observation and interaction. There will come a time when we learn how fragile trust is, and we’ll grow a little more wary and possibly a thicker skin. But the trick is to keep striving to trust, to see the value in it, to know the rewards of connections and community, of friendship and love. And with patience and understanding, we can teach our children that it’s okay to trust on their own terms and in their own time, because that’s the kind of trust that gives them autonomy and confidence in their own instincts.

A baby has no reference for “family” besides familiarity and safety, and while recognizing daily caregivers can happen as early as 2-4 months, distinguishing other people they know may not happen until 8 months or later. And when, as in the case of my disappointed father-in-law, there’s an expectation of a connection that hasn’t been agreed to or acknowledged by a baby or a toddler, that child may withdraw to the “safety” of mom or dad. But children are curious beings by nature, and when we make ourselves accessible, and do or say something that seems intriguing to them, they’re much more likely to investigate on their own. And I don’t know about you, but for me, curiosity, common interests, companionship, comfort, and collaboration are the foundations of some of my favorite relationships.