New words are coming fast from my toddler now. They started as a trickle when he was around one year old, but now he’s approaching two, sentences are tumbling out. The sound of big words in his tiny mouth rekindles my delight for language. A well-timed “Whoopsy” when he drops something instantly turns my smile into a laugh. His first three-syllable word was ‘Butterfly’. We worked so hard to encourage him to move on from just saying ‘Butter’ to adding ‘Fly’ that he still drags it out - saying “Butter” with wide-open eyes that keep you hanging on as he draws a deep breath and whispers “Fly” on an exhalation as if it was a punchline to a joke. Sometimes he spreads his arms like wings and soars when he hits the Fly.
Not that it’s all butterflies and whoopsies. Children are mirrors to us parents and we don’t always like what we see. Back in the early days of lockdown BFG and I did a Joe Wicks family workout together. Our child, let’s call him Sprout, mostly watched bemused and joined in with the odd kick or running on the spot. Afterwards he suddenly threw himself on the floor, flailed around like a trapped fly in a web and shouted ‘hard, hard, hard’ relentlessly. Apparently this was an impression of me exercising. I was sweating profusely and probably said ‘this is hard’ more times than I’d realised. Now I saw my efforts reflected. Life comes at you fast, I thought, first as tragedy and then as farce.
This wasn’t the first time I’d felt trolled by my child. I regularly hike up a steep hill with Sprout in a backpack parroting words over my shoulder. He mimics my breathlessness and exclaims, before I’ve even started up, “Oh no, hard”. My laughter makes me more breathless, which feeds the troll. It’s a pitiless impersonation.
A few weeks ago I made a trip to town with two other mums, children in tow. There was a brief moment when all three children were running around laughing in the sun and we mums looked at each other happily as if to say ‘isn’t this what life’s all about?’ - but for the rest of the trip one child was running off, or picking up something dirty from the floor or generally doing something contrary to our desires and it was hot and we all felt a little fraught, though in solidarity with one another’s suffering. On the way home I shared a lift. We collapsed into the car seats in exhaustion, wound the windows down and breathed sighs of relief that our children were finally contained and probably ready to sleep. ‘Oh god’ said a little voice from the back. ‘Oh god’ the other echoed. A volley of ‘Oh God’s went back and forth between them, underscoring our car journey by replaying the day’s petty frustrations and exasperations. We felt seen.
Children don’t just reflect our words back, they soak them up too. That’s the scarier part. Our words have consequences. I’m a worrier and I see every potential hazard in my child’s path, but my commands to ‘be careful’ have been internalised. Now Sprout walks about saying ‘careful, careful, careful’ and then proclaims ‘good boy’ when he’s successfully navigated an obstacle. I think of Dr Frankenstein and his monster. What am I creating? Have I made him overly cautious? Other children rush at life, they throw themselves into danger but Sprout doesn’t walk slowly down a slope without saying ‘careful’ first. And that’s just the first problem with this scenario. ‘Good boy’ can also be unpacked. Before ever having a child I was counselled not to say ‘good boy’ for two reasons. The primary argument is that you should always praise specific behaviour because no child is intrinsically good or bad. So, for example, you could praise ‘good eating’, ‘good walking’, ‘good words’, ‘good manners’ etc. Furthermore, offering specific praise has the benefit of being non-gendered. But Sprout’s persistent use of ‘good boy’, embracing it as a self-description, taunts me with my failure to practice this wisdom.
We recently experienced a good antidote to our caution and hesitancy. We’ve had a summer of gregarious guests and one family rippled with enviable energy and zest for life. After just a few days in their company Sprout adopted a new catchphrase: “Let’s do it”. Suddenly, as I was about to climb over a stile or open a gate or cross a road, the little voice in the backpack on my shoulder would proclaim: Let’s do it!
New energies can be absorbed like a sponge, which floods me with hope, because that suggests it’s not too late to do better. I woke up the other night with the sweaty realisation that I shouldn’t say things about him which are definitive, especially in his hearing. I’d started saying “he’s shy” to people when he’s burying his head in my neck but I don’t want to entrench that to become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Better, surely, to say “no need to act shy”. Yes, that’s better, I’m glad I settled that in my head at 4am and then couldn’t get back to sleep.
Watching his language develop is a stirring reminder of the power of words and how we use them - to delight, to charm, and to define. I resolve to avoid words that are cages and choose more that make him soar.