Let It Be...Without Me

Note: No post yesterday on account of house being struck by lightning. I hope that's the only time I'll ever be able to use that excuse.

I recently had an exchange with an American parent living in Europe about the differences between the ways Europeans and Americans parent. We came to the joint conclusion that while many Europeans worship the child, many Americans today are fetishizing childhood in a way that, to me, seems detrimental to the child.

There are so many manifestations of this fetishization. For one, there are the baby and toddler "classes" that simply did not exist when I was born. I am not talking about piano lessons or drawing classes for older kids. I am talking about "enrichment activities" for pre-verbal children, sometimes babies who cannot yet walk. These classes are religiously attended where I live, and in the cities where many of my friends live, and I confess that I myself signed up for a handful of these classes when Lily was a toddler, largely out of my inability to listen to the voice in my head that told me they were inane. Or, a louder voice: that of my mother, who allowed and encouraged us to take all the classes we wanted when we were old enough to choose and desire them--and lord, we did--but who finds this new trend about as silly as taking $400 and ripping it up into confetti.

And although it has taken me a few years, I now both trust my instincts as a parent more, and have gathered sufficient empirical evidence to have determined that there is quite a bit of truth to the confetti argument. I wonder what would happen to this generation of children if their parents could just learn to step back?

Today, while playing out on the lawn by herself, Lily occupied well over two hours engaged in a game of her own devising. She took two small tents from the shed and placed them near each other on the lawn. She took a row of small chairs and footstools and set them up in rows. She had a cavalcade of dolls and animals arranged in various postures and locations, as well as countless other small objects she'd collected around the house and yard. There was scotch tape involved, and water. There was a full size stroller and two doll strollers she'd managed to connect with elaborate knots. All of the dolls and animals were dressed; those who didn't have ready-made clothes were wearing clothes she'd made with paper and leaves.

Every so often I would look out the window, amazed by how the world she was creating took shape. Not once did she ask me for help, or my opinion, or my feedback, or my praise. Once she appeared to be finished with the construction aspect of the project, she began to play. After a very long while, I made my way out in the yard, over to where she was playing. At first, she didn't even notice me. And then: "Oh, hi Mama. Do you by any chance want to be the bus driver?" Really, how could I say no?

Annika, if I am tempted to bring you to Baby French or Art for Tots or any other activity you cannot yet pronounce, I will buy you some more blocks, books or paints instead. And be the bus driver every once in a while. Although I suspect you won't need me to very often. There's somebody just waiting for you to be old enough to jump on the bus.