Transparent Tuesdays

Issue 248

You guys,

I don’t know how to act around kids other than my own.

I can hold an infant fairly comfortably, but when they’re in the newly walking and talking phase I treat all our interactions as if I’m being graded. The problem is that I’d like an A grade. I see how other people can make my 4 and 3-year-old smile and engage them in conversation and I think, Gosh, they’re so good at that—I want to be like that, too.

The last time I went home to New Jersey, my older sister, Alexis, ran up to my kids at a field hockey game and bent down and opened her arms for a big hug. George and Layla ran into them. I watched from above, smiling at the sweetness of it. Later, at my parent’s house, when Alexis came over with her daughter—my niece—I wanted to reciprocate. I wanted to be a good aunt. I bent down. “Hi, Fiona,” I said. “Can I have a hug?”

It felt wrong as I said it. I was trying too hard. But I’m afraid if I act the way I want to act—the way that feels natural—I might not say anything to her at all.

I’m still haunted by the first time I met my friend’s one-year-old daughter, toddling around in her little pink Saucony sneakers. I got right in her face and have no recollection of what I said but it put her on the verge of tears. It’s as if as soon as there are little kids around I feel like everyone is waiting to see what I say and how I act. Having kids increases this pressure, because how can I spend every day with my own little kids and not be good with others?

We visited my friend Sasha in Los Angeles, who has two little boys the same age as my kids, and she picked us up at the airport. When she pulled into her driveway and opened the back door that’s where she met Layla for the first time, strapped in her travel car seat. “Hello!” she said to her, and gently rubbed her arms. “Can I get you?” And Layla went right to her. When we came into the house, Sasha bent down and looked Layla in the eyes and asked her questions that I can’t remember—I think about favorite animals—and she told Layla about all the toys they had that she could play with. After that, Layla could be seen running into Sasha’s arms and sitting on her lap. When Sasha’s little boys got home from school, I watched from afar as they ran around the backyard. I said, “Hi, it’s so nice to meet you,” but little else. The only time I touched one of them was when the younger one fell outside and started crying and there were no other adults around, so I picked him up and he stopped crying and I walked around with him on my hip, hoping everyone could see me being so good with a child who wasn’t mine.

I’m much better with adults. I want to know what they’re into, what lights them up, what they’re struggling with, what they’re reading, watching, doing with their life. With little kids I’m not wondering those things. I’m wondering how I can act so that I can be perceived as being good with kids. I’m hoping the parents of their kids will think, Gosh, she’s so good at that, or at the very least, Charlie is clearly a mom.

Two weeks ago I walked across the street with my kids to deliver Christmas cookies to our neighbors. The whole family came to the door—two parents and four kids—and as I witnessed their mom talk to my kids and comment on how big they were getting, I felt myself wanting to reciprocate. “I love your jammies!” I said to the youngest. She didn’t hear me. I tried to get her attention—said her name this time, as the 6-year-old brother came over and put an arm around me. I didn’t even notice until he let go, at which point I tried to give him a one-arm hug, but he was already walking away.

The following weekend I attended a 3-year-old’s birthday party with Layla. A girl, maybe 5 or 6 years old, was getting her arm painted. There was no adult by her side, no parents to be seen. She looked at Layla, who was holding my hand waiting in line to go next. “Are you going to get your arm painted?” she asked. Layla didn’t respond, so she asked, “What’s your name?” Layla didn’t respond. “Are you going to talk to me?” Layla didn’t respond.

“What’s your name?” I asked. “Joy,” she said. “What are you getting painted on your arm?” I asked. “Santa!” she said. “Wow, that’s really cool.” The woman painting her arm finished and Joy jumped up, started to pull the sleeve of her shirt down over her newly painted Santa Claus. “Oh it might still be wet,” I told her. Joy brought the tip of her finger slowly to the white part of Santa’s beard and touched it. She showed me her finger. “It’s dry!” she said, and proceeded to pull her sleeve down. “No kidding!” I said. “That dried fast.”

“Yea,” she said, and ran away.

Later, when I got home, I thought of Joy and the absence of her parents. It was only a brief exchange, but I was not haunted by it.

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Merry Christmas!!,

Charlie