by Anna Kunnecke
I have been reading this great book on childrearing. It's called Raising Your Spirited Child and it's written by a woman named Mary Sheedy Kurcinka, whose feet I would like to kiss. My mother handed it to me a while back. There was no offering, no suggesting, no 'perhaps you'd like to take a look at this.' No. My mother, grandmother of my daughter, handed this book to me with the words, "You're going to need this."
'How did she know that?' you might ask. Well.
Grandmothers just know things.
This was the book, apparently, that helped me reach adulthood because it helped my parents not kill me. The definition of a 'spirited' child is that they are a little bit more--more intense, more sensitive, more perceptive, more persistent. What? Who, me?
Yeah, yeah, and my daughter too.
So I've been learning lots of very useful things about how my daughter's nervous system works. Some kids really do seem to be wired a little bit differently. Some kids really can feel the seam in their socks. Some kids really do seem to soak up the emotions of those around them. But the big surprise has been the ah-ha moments I've had about myself. Specifically, how noisy, crowded places can trigger these ever-so-slightly-sensitive folks with a totally overwhelming flood of information and sensation.
I always assumed that everybody felt crazy and overwhelmed and frantic too, but they just handled it better than I did. Hunh.
Because here is the thing. I used to walk around Tokyo, this noisy, chaotic, pumping, streaming metropolis, in a pretty blissed-out state. I liked the energy, I liked the rush, and the crowds didn't bother me that much. That changed when I had my child.
Now I know why.
I used to travel this city in a bubble. I bet that most Tokyo inhabitants do. You have to, really, to survive. You're pressed full-body against total strangers every morning in the train; your ears are assaulted with right-wing loudspeakers blaring hatred; you constantly, constantly, have to watch where you're going or you'll get run over by a steady stream of people, whether you're navigating the supermarket, a train station, or the wooded path by the river. So you develop a zone. A private space. You tune out. You filter. You just have to. Some people use books or video games or headphones and music to do it; others can just go to that happy place.
When you're trying to keep track of a bouncing, running, chattering, giggling, and totally-crying-her-eyes-out-because-she-wanted-chewing-gum toddler, you can't do that. You can't zone out. You can't drift. Oh my god. It's awful.
I have to stay engaged with my daughter to keep her safe. And I want to stay engaged, truthfully, because she says these hilarious and adorable things that I am biologically programmed to find enthralling. But oh my lord, the noise in this town! The trains are bad enough, but those big electronics stores that go up thirteen stories and have loudspeakers blaring at every step? I get homicidal. I want to throw a temper tantrum. I want to go all toddler on their asses.
So here is my plan: clear plexiglass bubbles. We'll be bubble people. It'll be the next big thing. Sure, they might hamper our ability to walk, but then so do most shoes for women. We'll develop a nice, blissed-out waddle.
Good plan, right?
I have been reading this great book on childrearing. It's called Raising Your Spirited Child and it's written by a woman named Mary Sheedy Kurcinka, whose feet I would like to kiss. My mother handed it to me a while back. There was no offering, no suggesting, no 'perhaps you'd like to take a look at this.' No. My mother, grandmother of my daughter, handed this book to me with the words, "You're going to need this."
'How did she know that?' you might ask. Well.
Grandmothers just know things.
This was the book, apparently, that helped me reach adulthood because it helped my parents not kill me. The definition of a 'spirited' child is that they are a little bit more--more intense, more sensitive, more perceptive, more persistent. What? Who, me?
Yeah, yeah, and my daughter too.
So I've been learning lots of very useful things about how my daughter's nervous system works. Some kids really do seem to be wired a little bit differently. Some kids really can feel the seam in their socks. Some kids really do seem to soak up the emotions of those around them. But the big surprise has been the ah-ha moments I've had about myself. Specifically, how noisy, crowded places can trigger these ever-so-slightly-sensitive folks with a totally overwhelming flood of information and sensation.
I always assumed that everybody felt crazy and overwhelmed and frantic too, but they just handled it better than I did. Hunh.
Because here is the thing. I used to walk around Tokyo, this noisy, chaotic, pumping, streaming metropolis, in a pretty blissed-out state. I liked the energy, I liked the rush, and the crowds didn't bother me that much. That changed when I had my child.
Now I know why.
I used to travel this city in a bubble. I bet that most Tokyo inhabitants do. You have to, really, to survive. You're pressed full-body against total strangers every morning in the train; your ears are assaulted with right-wing loudspeakers blaring hatred; you constantly, constantly, have to watch where you're going or you'll get run over by a steady stream of people, whether you're navigating the supermarket, a train station, or the wooded path by the river. So you develop a zone. A private space. You tune out. You filter. You just have to. Some people use books or video games or headphones and music to do it; others can just go to that happy place.
When you're trying to keep track of a bouncing, running, chattering, giggling, and totally-crying-her-eyes-out-because-she-wanted-chewing-gum toddler, you can't do that. You can't zone out. You can't drift. Oh my god. It's awful.
I have to stay engaged with my daughter to keep her safe. And I want to stay engaged, truthfully, because she says these hilarious and adorable things that I am biologically programmed to find enthralling. But oh my lord, the noise in this town! The trains are bad enough, but those big electronics stores that go up thirteen stories and have loudspeakers blaring at every step? I get homicidal. I want to throw a temper tantrum. I want to go all toddler on their asses.
So here is my plan: clear plexiglass bubbles. We'll be bubble people. It'll be the next big thing. Sure, they might hamper our ability to walk, but then so do most shoes for women. We'll develop a nice, blissed-out waddle.
Good plan, right?
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