Childproof Home or Childproof Heart?

Illustration by Mila A., age 4

We rang in 2019 at home with our brother, sister-in-law, and their two children, N and T - ages 4 and 10, respectively. They stopped by on their way home from out of town, which was an unexpected treat since we'd planned on little more than the two of us sipping bubbly and watching Chrissy Teigen countdown the new year. As soon as they arrived, N opened her backpack to reveal her travel collection of Hatchimals, stuffed puppies, and an assortment of colored pencils and pens. Nothing in the room was as shiny or vibrant as those Hatchimals except the children themselves, especially N, who seemed to delight in the untouched promise of our apartment.

As N took in the room, I made my own silent evaluation of the place. The arrival of these totem objects in our minimal, curated living room highlighted how specifically “adult” our space had become over the years.  I felt a tug of guilt. Suddenly, I felt as though childcare licensing might drop by to cite me for the unlocked bleach under the sink and all those temptingly uncovered electrical sockets. Or worse, what if an esteemed mentor of mine should stroll through and observe how my home’s main sources of entertainment were --dare I admit-- screens? N had hardly unpacked her bunny named Bunny before our home was transformed into a den of untold hazards and stifling boredom.

At dinner, we didn’t even have enough chairs to accommodate all the adults and children at the table at once. It was late, and the kids had already eaten, but the circumstances ate at me. So much for all my talk about respecting children as full members of our community, I thought as I set N up with a TV tray and a bunch of printer paper. T clutched an iPhone as the last vestige of fun 2018 had to offer him.  

Eventually, the printer paper lost its mystique and N went in search of greater amusements. I, respecter and believer in the rights and competence of children, cringed when she approached the shelf of board games, equipped with a sparse, Millennial-ly-correct collection of Cards Against Humanity, 90s Trivial Pursuit, Magic: The Gathering, and a bunch of puzzles. Not my cats and angels deck, I breathed as she reached for the Magic cards, nerdery competing with narc-ery as my most shame-inspiring impulse. I distracted her from the collectibles with the classic, “Can I read you a story?”

Success - for about two minutes since I keep a cart of cozy reading essentials next to the cozy reading chair, including a tiny succulent and a perfumed candle encased in delicate glass. You know, for ambiance. To be honest, I had set up the little reading space with these and a few other soothing objects because I was inspired by the cozy, sensorial spaces we create for children in the classrooms at my school. So naturally N, being an appreciator of aesthetics and sensory experiences, grabbed both the beautiful candle and beautiful plant, leaves first, in her beautiful fists. “Ooooh!” she said with delight.

Now listen, I have been a literal professional in the creation of intentional, inspiring, supportive environments for young children for years. My classrooms are designed to be attractive, readable, and provide children with the right amount of challenge to both respect and grow their ability to navigate places. There are some ways, of course, I minimize potential problems by offering just enough things so the children can manage the materials independently and introduce them in a way that guides how and why to use something. Children want to learn to care for things because they want to be successful as they navigate a space. And, because I believe that children are competent and capable, I only offer them real things. We use clay, not play dough. We use permanent markers when we need to make strong lines. We use wire cutters to make wire sculptures. We care for living, growing plants. We arrange flowers in glass vases. We use beautiful glass containers to hold our precious tools and materials. I believe that children learn to handle problems and ideas by handling these things, even and especially when they break, and that these experiences are more important than the objects ever could be.

Yet, for some Montessori-forsaken reason, my first words as N clutched the candle were, “LET’S PUT THAT DOWN.” Like she was holding a gun on me or something.

Reader, hearing myself panic-speak these words to the loving, curious four-year-old before me was a revelation.

How many times have I had to confront a similar phenomenon as a teacher? How many times did I start to yell, count to three, admonish, or condescend in a way that someone had once done to me as a child? Each time these things came from me like an echo of some greater clap of thunder booming from somewhere that just couldn’t be me. But, of course, it was. This is why the teachers’ job is to learn. To think and respond, not react. As these impulses became fewer (though they certainly still show up from time to time), the children learned with confidence rather than anxiety, and I knew I was growing in the right direction.

Yet there, in my home, at 11 pm on New Year’s Eve, was the echo of some adultified thunder I thought I had pushed aside.

I didn’t have a childproof room. I had a childproof heart, which was much worse.

It was a small moment for such a big feeling, but there it was, louder than ever because I’d never had to practice moving past it outside of my classroom. I reminded myself that I had already learned to listen. I reminded myself that children are not just capable of handling glass but of learning how to interact with the things around them in a safe and supportive way. We, as adults, just have to invite them in.

If I were in the classroom, I would have drawn from that larger understanding of children, but also, moment to moment, I would have considered what I knew about the individual children I’d be interacting with. What did I know about N? She’s inquisitive, observant, and incredibly tactile. She loves to explore things through her hands (explains the Hatchimals, too). Of course, she wanted to pick things up! This wasn’t a moment of testing people or boundaries; it was about trying to familiarize herself with a new environment through the modality that works best for her.

“You found the candle and plant,” I said, putting my own hands to join hers. “There is a special way to touch them. I’ll show you.”

I turned the plant right-side up, steadied the candle, and asked her which to look at first. “The candle has glass, so we hold it like this. Then we can smell it.”

We each said, mmmmm, as we sniffed the sweet wax.

For the succulent, I said, “These kinds of plants are so special because they have many parts. You can feel all the parts with one finger. That’s the way to keep them safe.”

We each felt the texture of the plant and smiled, new understandings all around.

The new year came as it always does, faster than you think and with the hopeful clinking of glass. Even N got to toast in a gesture of hope and togetherness for the year ahead.

As everyone stood to leave, N’s dad picked her up, bringing her to eye level with another plant, perfectly sized for grabbing in a four-year-old hand. I watched as she lunged for it and, suddenly, in that weird slow motion that happens when you really notice things, raised a single finger to delicately stroke a leaf.

My resolution was to remember that moment forever.