Emotional growth and toddlers

I am fairly certain that Helen, age 2, is more mature than I am. In a number of ways, actually.

First, I read this interesting article today about parenting. The author, an early childhood education specialist, suggests doing away with "time outs," claiming they are the fad of the current generation of parents but little better than spanking in most ways. She talks instead about the importance of helping a child to learn to "center." By this she means that a child (and often an adult) need a chance to choose their own acceptable method to release emotions and regain equilibrium before then leading them to find their own solutions to problems. The author also claims that most (all?) problems with children's behavior can be traced to having an unmet need that they don't know how to address, so that our primary parenting goal is not punishment, or even discipline, but teaching - teaching children how to recognize their own needs and to find acceptable ways to get those needs met.

Like most books on child-raising, I don't think she has all the answers for every kid. But I think she has a lot of wisdom. Perhaps it just rings true to me because I think it is a concept that my own mom would have agreed with. From the first days of my parenting, I have heard mom's voice in my head, gently suggesting to me that a misbehaving child is really just a child with an unmet need, and since I am the adult, it is not my job to get angry or frustrated; it is merely my job to find and meet that need. (Cranky kids? Feed them. Fighting kids? Help them take a nap. All well and good, though it does seem to get exponentially more complicated as the children get older.)

Well, in any case, this article struck me today because of what I have been observing in Helen. First, she has always been a pro at meeting her own needs. We sometimes call this trait in a toddler "being independent." She doesn't cry or whine when she is hungry - she just pries open the fridge, pulls over a chair, and climbs up to the shelf with the watermelon. She doesn't sit placidly wondering when she might get to go swimming - she gets her swimming suit out of her dresser, pulls it on (often over her clothing), then stands expectantly by the door, telling everyone who comes within range, "I go swim in pool." When that doesn't lead to the desired result, she changes the story to, "I swim in the tub?"

But today, I think I witnessed the most stunning thing I have ever seen a young child, let alone a toddler, do. We had driven over to the pool to drop John off for swim team practice and pick up Maggie and James after theirs. Thus, she saw the pool, saw the kids in suits, saw the showers, but didn't get to swim. Even though I had explained to her before we went that life would work out this way for her today, I felt my heart breaking as I buckled her back into her car seat. I could watch the reality of the situation dawning on her in real time, rippling across her face. She was not going to get in the pool (a true obsession of hers). She broke into a full cry - quite unusual for her. Not a whining cry, as in "Let me do it! I will make you let me do it." Rather, it was the lusty, soulful cry of a broken heart. Her face crumpled, sobs welled up from the depths of her little body, and tears began to flow.

Just as I was beginning to wonder if I could ever make the world right again, I watched the most amazing thing happen. Helen took in a deep shuddering breath, let it out slowly, and smoothed out her face into sad resignation. The crying began as quickly as it had started. She seemed to have simply accepted that this small part of the universe would never be arranged to her desires, and there was no point in making a scene. She was clearly still sad, but she simply decided to move on. I watched her do this right in front of my eyes - something that many adults have not yet learned. Wow.

In case you were wondering, I would have bought the whole pool for her at that moment, if I could have.

Postscript
An additional observation related to the independent streak in Helen. We have been a bit overrun by ants in the house this spring. She has taken it upon herself to hunt them. When she spies one, she shouts delightedly, "Mom (Dad)! Look! A bug!" If we don't respond quickly enough, she prompts us with the appropriate action. "Get a tissue!" If even that does not earn the quick response that she wants, then she marches off to get a tissue herself. Her bug-squishing body count currently leads the family.