Max turns 2, tomorrow, this little boy of mine. We’ve had a long year of changes, especially for a child of his age. One of full of movement, growth, displacement and Maman holding her breath wondering what kind of little boy hers would turn into.
We’ve moved - back and forth from our old apartment, into our new one during some heavy construction, into the in-laws, to Sicily, to San Francisco, back to the in-laws and finally, to our mostly finished home, again. Over this span of 6 months, we’ve pee’d in the potty with gentle encouragement, began to speak in phrases, and now, are having full toddler conversations; sometimes about the neighbors, about our shoes, or what we want to do today. “Want to ride my bicycle” is the most popular response. The other is “buy fruit.“ Max loves his fruit - all fruit - and when we run out, he says casually with a shrug of the shoulder, “let’s buy some.” This response extends to almost everything now, when I tell him that we don’t have any. He thinks that money grows in our wallets, and often goes digging for mine in my bag.
Max has been undressing himself these last few days and putting on his own boots, always on his feet, sometimes on the correct foot. It’s almost like the final shedding of my little baby into a proper young gentleman. How timely, so close to his 2 year celebration. And he really is a little gentleman. Gentle, considerate and one who shares with other children, even his beloved bicycle. Almost too kind, we think, to the point where we’ve run into the parental dilemna of asking ourselves whether we should teach Max to hit back when hit. Push back, when pushed. To teach him that he doesn’t always have to share if he doesn’t want to. All of those traits that we’re supposed to guide our children away from. We’re faced with these fine lines that we didn’t think existed in little children, and I feel a bit evil encouraging a young to hit. Evil teaching him that he doesn’t always have to share his toys. Each nudge in the ‘wrong’ direction is followed by a thought of whether this will backfire on us.
In addition to meeting little children at the playground that we’re not eager to befriend - or at least I’m not, there was an occasion once, on a playdate at our apartment, where a little boy repeatedly took Max’s toy from his hands, becoming very upset to the point of pushing when Max refused him. In other words, just being a young child. Immediately afterward during one of these episodes, the boy was frustrated as he tried to fit the block into it’s corresponding hole. In a gesture that surprised us, Max bent down to show him how it was done. How heartbreaking on more levels than one. Sweet. But is he setting himself up to be bullied constantly? I was proud, however, that he was so casual about the incidents. He didn’t cry, and he didn’t insist on keeping his toys. Rather, he just seemed puzzled, wondering what to do with his friend; looking to us for a reaction. Where we encouraged him to share at the outset of the playdate, we -both sets of parents - ended by encouraging him to hit the boy back. The children were just being children, and we thought that they could learn to temper the other.
Based on our personalities, my husband and I were concerned that Max would be an uncontrollable and aggressive child. Thankfully, or not, he isn’t at all like that. Yet. I do know that children change, and we don’t take Max’s temperament for granted. I’ve worried on so many occasions, aloud and to myself, that Max would turn into one of these boys. I’ve worried whether the terrible twos carry him away wrapped in a birthday suit of self-absorbment and me, me, me-ness. And thankfully, or not, I’m left worry free on this point, at this point. But the alternate worry is that his feelings will be hurt. That he’ll be bullied, always. So we tell him that it’s ok to hit, when he’s hit first. How do you effectively teach a baby that exception to the rule?
He is genuinely and truly nice, Max with the old soul. The plane spotter - even when only smoke trails remain high in the sky informing us “avion” , the boy who sees butterflies in hearts, telling me with absolute certainty after I’ve drawn a heart for him, “papillon.” The bird watcher, asking to be propped on the counter in front of the window at my in-laws, so that he could wait for birds to perch in the trees . The prudent observer at the playground, who sometimes prefers to stand back and watch the action than get on the slide; the child who plays gently with his toys and watches as other children tear through them. This little two year old who is sometimes overly cautious, who likes to screech at the top of his lungs now and then, to my dismay, but who hasn’t yet encountered the legend of the terrible 2’s.
Weeks ago, Max told me for the first time in his little sleepy voice that he loved me, after I told him. This comes after he’s told it to Léo first, after Léo was put to bed in his crib. Max’s jealousy of Léo’s place in our life is mild; not that he doesn’t take the occasional swat or want to sit on my lap when Léo was there, first . Léo’s biggest danger, at the moment, is being hugged to death by an over enthusiastic brother who can’t wait to play. Max often charges toward Léo while he’s sitting in his little chair and plops his head onto his little brother’s lap or stomach, and rests there, hugging his waist and sucking his (own) thumb. Max never fails to extract a hearty laugh or bright eyed smile. While their interactions are so meaningful now, with a mostly gentle Max who runs ahead of me to the crib to soothe his crying brother (or to tell him, “No crying, leo!” as the case is sometimes), I’m acutely aware that the delicate nature of their relationship -all relationships - also depends on how we guide them, as parents.
I yuv you. How sweetly those words drifted over me, after he’s been hearing them since he was in my belly, after he’s learned to have little conversations with us, in French with his father and English with me. It’s as if he’s run out of things to say in lieu of this and is finally facing it. As if he’s practiced with Léo and can run it by Mom, now.
I yuv you too, Max. Thank you, for being a kind and gentle old soul; for being a little boy who makes us proud, always. There are so many moments when I admire the little gentleman you’re growing to be. So many times I don’t question what you’re pointing out, whether it’s the moon when I don’t think it’s risen yet, or whether it’s an airplane because I didn’t hear it and don’t see one flying overhead. Because each time I have, I’ve been wrong. This most important lesson in these moments, is that each time I’ve looked hard enough, there it was.
Happy Birthday, little one. You enrich my life. You make me one thousand times a better person.