Lessons from a two year old: Christmas edition

Christmas is a time when families come together. Sometimes things explode, unwanted and unexpected, like an insidious grenade of a cracker that no-one pulled; or, if you’re really unlucky, like an Eastenders Christmas special.

But sometimes, Christmas is lovely. There's the tree, twinkling in the corner; the presents, frantically acquired and hastily wrapped, often the night before; the gently steaming mulled wine simmering on the stove; the alluring aromas of the roast dinner; the catch-ups on the sofa over a nice hot cup of tea and Sky Plus.

This Christmas was one of those Christmases. Not showy, or dramatic (beyond the Eastenders Christmas special); just family, reunited, under one roof, enjoying each other's company.

One person, above all, has loved the full house and the attention of doting family members. Rohan. He has been spoiled rotten. Not just with the presents (so many presents), or the newly acquired and exciting knowledge of Santa Claus, but by the constant stream of playmates and companions, the steady outpourings of love and affection, with him at the centre of it all.

But, as in life, sometimes people come, and then, after a stretch, they have to go. Sometimes you see them again, and sometimes you don’t. And the more you love them, the harder it is to accept it when they leave.

So it was today. After a seemingly endless morning of packing and unpacking the car – what appeared to be a mammoth task of Super Tetris proportions – it was finally time for Rohan's beloved Ajima (grandma) and Azoba (granddad) and Bua (auntie) to head back home to Shrivenham.

Moments earlier, my nephew was in high spirits, running around the hall and affectionately head-butting us all like a new-born lamb as his dad shuffled past out the door with yet another suitcase or bag of Boxing Day sales shopping to try and tessellate in the back seat of the car.

“Ro,” my sister explained, “Ajima, Azoba and Bua have to go back to Shrivenham now. That's why they're packing the car. Are you going to say goodbye to them?”

He looked up at her with a slight frown, not quite comprehending the full meaning of his mum’s words.

“Are we going to Shrivenham too?” he asked.

“No, baba,” my sister said gently. “Not today. There’s no room in the car! Look, there are too many bags! There’s hardly any room for poor Ajima in the back!”

He looked from my sister to me, as if for affirmation. I could see the cogs whirring: realisation, slowly starting to dawn.

“But we can go visit Shrivenham soon,” I piped in. “And it'll be your birthday soon, too, so we'll see them again then!”

My jaunty, optimistic C-Beebies tone, however, didn't seem to be having the desired effect. He was beginning to look increasingly bewildered by this unexpected turn of events.

My sister and I shared a quick, knowing glance, very much aware of what was coming. 

He was temporarily distracted by the onslaught of goodbye hugs and kisses, but there, in the doorway, the tears started to pool in his eyes.

“But I want to come!” he said. “I want to go in the car.”

“Let’s go into the lounge and you can stand on the sofa and look out the window and wave at them,” my sister suggested, deploying a tried and tested distraction technique.

We huddled him into the lounge and he clambered onto the sofa. “But,” he said again, bottom lip wobbling, “I want to go! I want to go in the car!”

“I know, sweetheart,” my sister said, cuddling him, “but look, there's no room for your car seat and we can't go in the car without your seat, can we? And look! Daddy's not going in the car, either. He’s coming back inside.”

“Daddy's not going?”

“No. Look, there he is. Wave!”

Outside, my brother-in-law hugged his family a final time and then came back into the house. As he entered the lounge, Rohan turned to him and said, sniffling, “I want my seat.”

At that moment, as I looked at my nephew and his adorably pitiful little face, I felt a tugging sensation deep in my chest – I knew that he would probably forget all about it in a few minutes time (ah, the joys of being a child), but nevertheless, it was recognition of a feeling most of us have felt many times before and will continue to feel, from now until the end of time. The sadness of saying goodbye to people that you love.

Lesson #4: Goodbyes never get any easier.

Lessons from a two year old

So if you don't already know, I am currently living in Gatley with my sister, her husband and their little boy (my nephew), Rohan.

Rohan is 2 years old and 10 months. I am aware that I may be biased, but given that I have very little affection for children in general (it more usually tends towards fear/loathing), and suffer from the condition I like to call "Baby Fear", even I have to admit that he is pretty cute, as kids go.

If you don't believe me, feast your eyes on this:

His eyelashes put Revlon mascara to shame

Cute, eh? :)

Having been away for almost a year and missed out on some major milestones of his development, the kind that seem to tot up at an alarming rate at this age, it's actually quite nice to be around on a more everyday basis and see these changes as they happen in real time.

Amidst carrying out auntie duties, I've also found that living with a 2 year old can give you an interesting new perspective on life. Because, let's face it, we're at very different stages of our lives, Rohan and me. I'm 26 years old, jobless, penniless, living at home, facing an ongoing quarter-life crisis of not knowing what to do – what I want to do, what I should be doing – and spending each day battling the urge to just slob about in my Cookie Monster onesie eating bowls of Cookie Crisp and faffing about on the Internets all day. And Rohan. Well, Rohan has to battle the everyday trauma of not being allowed to watch more than 2 episodes of Abney and Teal before bedtime. Seems pretty trivial to me, but I know it's no laughing matter for him.

But you know what, at least he knows what he wants. He wants to sit in his Buzz Lightyear chair, and watch loads of Abney and Teal, because that's what he loves and that's what he wants to do. And he will stop at nothing to try and get it. Seriously, if you've seen the determination and range of tactics he uses on my sister everyday come 6/6.30pm you would be impressed.

You see? Determination, tenacity and creativity. Good lessons.

Lately though, one of the struggles he and my sister have both been facing together is a big hurdle in his child development: toilet training. This is an ongoing, and arduous process, and one which Rohan is not finding easy. But on the flipside, he is a mini prodigy when it comes to communication. My inner academic nerd and my English Literature heart sing at his love of words, his love of stories, his ever-burgeoning vocabulary, his swiftness at picking up new phrases and grammatical structures, and how much he loves to learn. He already knows all the letters of the alphabet and can count up to 30. Amazing! So that made me realise Lesson #1:

Lesson #1: You can't always be good at everything... and that's OK.  

The main thing is that he's learning. And he'll get there – in his own time.

I've also observed that when you have to jump over a hurdle of such magnitude as using a grown up toilet and swapping the snug safety net of your nappy for teeny Thomas/Spiderman underpants, you have to do it in stages!

For example, at the moment, Rohan is finding doing "shushu" (a wee) is a lot easier to manage than "hagu" (a poo). For some reason, letting go of his wee in the potty is a lot less momentous than doing a poo. I've seen him give himself constipation out of crippling, psychological fear of pooing out of his nappy. I've seen him hopping about on one leg, face scrunched up in intense pain, in a total quandary, because he desperately needs to go but is terrified of his sudden, enforced, nappyless existence. "I want my Pull-Ups!" he cries. So he takes off his undies, puts his Pull-Ups on, and lets go. This taught me another valuable lesson:

Lesson #2: Change is scary. And sometimes, wallowing in your own shit is preferable to the alternative because it's more comfortable and it's what you're used to

But that does not mean that you shouldn't throw your own nappy out of the window, and be free. So this made me think: What's your nappy? What shit are you wallowing in?

Clearly, for Rohan, overcoming his psychological poo barrier will take some time, and sometimes it's not good to force it (hence distressing constipation fear complex). But he is making excellent progress on the wee front. In fact, just this morning this is what I heard coming from the bathroom:

Rohan: "Mummy! Mummy! I did it!"
Sis: "You did it? Let's see?"
Rohan: "I did it!"
Sis: "Wow, you did! And it's all in the bowl, too! Well done!"
Rohan: "I'm not scared of the toilet anymore! I'm not scared of the toilet anymore! I'm echellent."
Sis: "Yes, you are excellent."

Bless. He sounded SO chuffed, and well he should be. But you don't go from wet nappies to perfect toilet technique straightaway. Just the other week, the poor chap let one go on the floor of Coop whilst out shopping with Daddy. And the other day, the wee went half in the loo and half on the toilet seat. Probably an angling issue. Now, if Rohan spent all his time thinking about these missteps and misfires and weighed himself down with feelings of shame, or guilt, or despair, he would never get anywhere. In fact he'd probably go off the idea of toilets altogether and lead a sad, hermit life with only his nappy for company. Which brings me nicely to Lesson #3:

Lesson #3: Don't be afraid to get wee on the bowl. 

Mistakes happen. But that's how you learn.

I think this is a great lesson for me, especially, because I understand Rohan's performance anxiety. Sometimes I get so scared of failing that I don't even try, and that's probably the biggest mistake of them all.