Negotiating texture and constriction
When my second child, L, was a baby, he would wake up in the middle of the night and cry. Sometimes it lasted 15 minutes, but generally, it was much longer than that—up to 90 minutes. I would try to feed him, then pass him off to my husband, who would try to get him back to sleep. I don’t know exactly how long this lasted, but it was a rough time for all three of us. We didn’t know why he was so upset. He couldn’t tell us. Months later, when he was around 18 months old, we discovered that he had a sensitivity to things being tight around his ankles and wrists. He also didn’t like clothes that were not super soft. This was likely the cause of his nightly crying sessions, which had subsided by this point. Most pajamas, especially for infants, have elastic in the wrists and ankles. I am sure I cried about it, felt guilty for not somehow recognizing that he preferred his Hanna jammies that had looser wrists and ankles with no elastic. For not intuiting what my baby needed from me. What I wish I had learned was that my ability to comfort him would always be bound by what I could understand and what he could communicate.
As he grew, it became apparent that his sensitivity was not limited to texture and constriction. He was very attuned to people’s moods and feelings. When my boys were small, my job required me to travel quite a bit. I was often saddened by this and the other substantial stressors of my work. Little L would recognize when I was stressed, even if I didn’t think it was apparent. He would grab onto my arm with both of his little hands, burrow his head into me, and say, “Belax, Mama. Just belax.”
L has continued to feel things deeply. This sensitivity has helped him in his relationships and on stage. And it has also made relationships challenging. He has had his heart broken a few times in his young life. He has been hurt. He has realized he has been hurtful to friends. While I sometimes feel that I know about as much of his inner life as I did before he could speak, I can recognize so much of the scaffolding of his relationships. Connection is intensely important to him. He wants to have genuine and meaningful relationships. Which, especially in adolescence, can lead to some imbalance in his friendships. Feeling deeply connected to another person, only to have them disregard you with a brush off or a lie or a betrayal. Finding a friend whom you could talk with for hours and still feel you have so much more to share. Experiencing the electricity and intoxication of falling hard and fast in love. And the inevitable heartbreak when that love ends. Because it almost always does.
One of the things I realized early on as a parent was just how strong the urge was to do things for my children rather than let them fail and learn these lessons on their own. When they are small, you do it to keep them physically safe. As they get older, you want to keep them from physical harm, but more often, it’s the emotional pain you want to prevent. Watching them trust a friend you can see will end up hurting them. Seeing them take for granted a friend you know will be a long-term friend, not a fair-weather one. Allowing them to push boundaries you wish they wouldn’t.
My children are more supervised, tracked, and monitored than I ever was, which is probably about equal parts technology and different parenting styles. I remind myself fairly often that my parents only knew what I told them. They had no smart phone to track and see if I was in fact where I said I would be. They couldn’t call or text me at a concert to see if it was over. Somehow, I made it through to adulthood. I also remind myself that despite my ability to physically know where my children are, I don’t have any shorthand way to know emotionally how they are. That still requires a relationship. One that takes work. Learning how to walk the tightrope between saying enough to keep communication open and not asking so many questions they shut down. Giving them space to test their independence and comfort when they hurt. Allowing them to chose when and what they want to share of themselves. And of course, it also depends on the child and their personality. Their willingness and ability to share.
L figured out how to communicate with us that he had issues with texture and constriction. He learned that once we knew that, we accommodated him. We bought pants that were smooth and soft. We bought snow boots that were a size or two too big so they didn’t hug his ankles. Pajamas were loose around the ankles and the wrists. Sometimes, mostly when I am driving him somewhere, he will open up a little window into what the textures and constrictions are of his life as an almost 16 year old. I mostly just listen these days. I no longer pick out his clothes or guide his little feet into boots. And sometimes, I am the one saying softly, “Belax, my sweet boy. Just belax.”