In praise of difficult children
This week’s London Review of Books has an article called “In Praise of Difficult Children.” I haven’t read it yet. I didn’t want to read it until I had had a chance to think what I would have written, had I written such an article.
I DO have a difficult child. I have two complicated ones but only one truly difficult one. My first. And I am absolutely certain I would be a lesser person were it not for what he has demanded of me.
First, he demands tenacity. He never slept. He cried all the time (and that is only the most minor of exaggerations). He could not be comforted. He found no respite at all in my arms. There was no sense that I, as his mother, could do anything more for him than any other body willing to hold him and walk and walk and walk. He was, even then, a picky eater. He only liked the right breast. Then he only liked the left. Then he wanted neither except if I were in the bathtub. Then he wanted to feed for three hours straight. He was having none of that proper mouth positioning crap. He was going to purse up his little lips and suck as if I were a straw. Ow. But I could not give up. Of course not. I was his mother. He was mine. I had to stick it out, no matter what. I still do. The same rule, over and over. The same limit, over and over. The same line drawn over and over.
He demands patience. Recite the same poem (Christopher Robin goes hoppity hoppity hoppity hoppity hop…) three hundred times a day. Never vary the pace or speed of movement. Never move suppertime even by a minute. Allow no loud noises, bright lights, harsh clothing. He needs me to be soft voiced and gentle, even when I want, need, to give a loud roaring noise of sadness and despair (I think we’re back in the Hundred Acre Wood with that one).
He demands faith. As teachers, grandparents, relatives, strangers, indeed, grown-ups of all kinds find themselves bemused, confused and finally eroded by his inflexibility, his comprehensive knowledge of geography, grammar and space, his volatile temper — as all those around us ask “what is wrong with your child” I must carry on believing in him. Absolutely and utterly. He is my child. I will not doubt that we can pull him through whatever challenges he faces. I believe that he will grow up to be something wonderful, no matter how hard he struggles now.
He demands strength. I must face him down daily, set limits, enforce them, refuse to be bullied by temper tantrums or sad looks. I must always be strong, sure and present, a rock in his unsteady world.
He demands courage. I must face what he is, rather than what I had imagined he would be. I must confront him when necessary, confront others when necessary. I must walk forward into the darkness fearlessly because I must light the way for him.
He demands love. I found within myself a well-spring of love far deeper and richer than I had imagined I possessed. I imagine it as a heavy silk blanket, warming him, cushioning him against a world he finds sharp-edged and unsettling.
Of course, it is not just me who benefits from my acquaintance with a difficult child. He accepts nothing on trust, questions, pushes, demands to know why from all those around him. By never acceding quietly to anything, he forces people to rethink their assumptions, to explore their rationales. He creates an atmosphere of questioning, an almost electric swirl around him that energizes those caught in its wake.
Without this child, and others like him, refusing to sand off their square corners to fit our round holes, we would lose the opportunity to grow past our assumptions and limitations. He pushes everything, everyone. If we are open to it, we will find ourselves and our worlds expand as he passes.
