Sometimes nurturing is hard, not because we don't want to nurture, but because we miss opportunities to nurture. It's easy to get wrapped up in how everything is "supposed" to go and lose sight of the child's perspective. Though I often fail, those moments when I do have the blessed relief of having seen small opportunities to nurture, rather than squash, my children's spirits, are precious. Many of those moments are but small, seemingly insignificant interactions requiring no more than a single thought, but leaving me unspeakably thankful that I took a second to think about what might be going on in my child's heart and mind, rather than rushing ahead with my own ideas of how everything should go. Little things matter big, especially to little ones.
Without going into too much background detail, I'd dropped John off at Art one afternoon last fall with explicit directions to do the project set before him, to do it to the best of his ability, and to do it with a good attitude. When I picked him up after class, he and his teacher quietly acknowledged that he hadn't quite completed the project as directed. His teacher affirmed that he'd had a great attitude, though. And John quietly, calmly, happily explained that he hadn't finished because finishing would mean cutting up a picture he had drawn in the first step of the project, a picture he judged "too good to cut." Strictly speaking, John hadn't done the project set before him. But he had done his best, and he had done it with a good attitude. He was happy, his teacher was happy, and I could not help being happy myself. That, whether I had realized it or not, had been my goal. His teacher has always been pleased to let John diverge from The Plan a little, in the interest of allowing the artist in him to flourish, and as long as the two of them... No, as long as one of them - the teacher (whom I trust not to treat John unfairly or otherwise give him a just reason to be unhappy)- is happy at the end of class, I'm happy.
Later that night, John and Luke were coloring on the floor, the crayons that had previously resided within the confines of a medium-size tupperware bowl littering the floor between their papers. As I was in the process of cleaning up before getting the kids ready for bed, the sight of crayons on the floor almost made me cry. Visions of crayons spread far and wide across the dining room and into the adjoining rooms blurred my mind.
"Put the crayons back in the bowl, please." I tried not to sound as desperate for a clean floor as I felt.
"But we need them on the floor..." John's voice was tinged with urgency. I sensed a tantrum lurking, waiting to pounce at the least provocation. He'd been so good all day, but I could tell the location of the crayons was, in his mind, a very important issue, one to be handled with the utmost care.
Deep sigh. What on earth could be so difficult about keeping the crayons in the bowl? I began to suspect that he might just possibly have a reasonable answer, a valid reason NOT to put the crayons in the bowl.
"Why do you need them on the floor?" I asked, my voice much calmer than my still-calming spirit.
"It's too hard to find them if I have to do this," he replied, shaking his hand to demonstrate the frustrating task of having to rifle through a medium-sized bowl of crayons to find an urgently needed color at the bottom of the bowl.
Ah! It made perfect sense. Of course it's so much easier to find the color you need in a single layer of crayons than it is to sift through layers of crayons crammed into a plastic bowl - and possibly never find the crayon as your hand pushes it constantly out of sight. In that moment, I learned something about my son. Rather, I was reminded of an important fact, one I sometimes find harder to believe than I care to admit.
The boy does not mean to be difficult. Though he sometimes seems erratic... Though I sometimes have no idea why he does what he does... Though he sometimes has no idea why he does what he does... there is a method to the seeming madness. There is a reason he does what he does, and it is a precious moment when he is able to communicate that reason and we are able to find a mutually uplifting solution to the problem at hand.
In the case of the crayons, a cookie sheet served both our interests. The crayons were in a single layer, yet unable to spread across the dining room floor. Win-win. More than that, he and I had the joyous satisfaction of identifying and solving a problem together.
In the time that has passed since that fall day, I've had increasing opportunities to see beyond the madness into the method. And it seems the more open I am to see his method, the more he is able to share it. I'm always amazed at the thought he puts into things - from why crayons should be on the floor to why he shouldn't wear socks. (They're uncomfortable, they make his feet hot, he can't find any good socks, etc.)
Maybe some who are reading this think I'm too permissive a parent. To them, I say, "Rest assured. We have our share of non-negotiables. But when it comes to crayons and art projects and socks, for that matter, you may keep your 'Because I Said So's.' I want my children to learn how to express themselves and have the courage and grace to speak their minds with confidence, knowing their thoughts will be heard and considered. Besides, the location of my kid's crayons - or the color and smell of his feet after an afternoon outside - is far less important to me than the content of his heart."
There is a method to a child's madness, and a miracle occurs when he finds the words, the courage, and the grace to reveal the secret mechanisms of his mind. Every time it happens, I marvel.
(Closing paragraph brought to you by the letter m).
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