I heard something just now that broke my heart a little.
I thought I'd scrape 2 years' of crud off the windows in what looks like my front door (it's really a wall masquerading as a door, but I took down the curtains that hid it and people have been going in and out of it all weekend so maybe I have to face facts and let it be a door again), and I had it open so I could Windex the nine little front windowpanes.
While I wiped I could hear the toddler-next-door having a typical continuous toddler monologue while her Grandma sat on the porch-next-door.
"I can do it, look!" the toddler said over and over while she capered up and down the sidewalk. "I can do it!"
Thump. Toddler hits concrete. No wailing, so she was okay.
Grandma went to her aid. "See, That's why I told you not to run! You shouldn't run, you'll get hurt."
And that's when my heart cracked.
Telling a toddler not to run is like telling them not to breathe. Toddlers wake up running. They run all day long, and they run until they drop into a dead sleep so they can wake up and run some more.
And what's with that I-told-you-so business? Toddlers run, and then toddlers fall. If you don't make a big deal over the fall, nine times out of ten they just get up, shake it off, and start running again. Like little robots.
But why program a kid to expect pain? Running for most toddlers is simply an expression of their natural joie de vivre. I can't tell you how it hurt to hear a little piece of that girl's spirit shrivel up and blow away today.
We should be teaching our children to fly. Correction: they already know how to fly. And as their guides and mentors, all we can really do is just give them enough room to do just that.
I do that all the time - tell my kid "that's why you need to be careful!" when he hurts himself. Now that I recognize it, I will encourage him to fly. Thanks for the poignant words.
I heard something just now that broke my heart a little.
I thought I'd scrape 2 years' of crud off the windows in what looks like my front door (it's really a wall masquerading as a door, but I took down the curtains that hid it and people have been going in and out of it all weekend so maybe I have to face facts and let it be a door again), and I had it open so I could Windex the nine little front windowpanes.
While I wiped I could hear the toddler-next-door having a typical continuous toddler monologue while her Grandma sat on the porch-next-door.
"I can do it, look!" the toddler said over and over while she capered up and down the sidewalk. "I can do it!"
Thump. Toddler hits concrete. No wailing, so she was okay.
Grandma went to her aid. "See, That's why I told you not to run! You shouldn't run, you'll get hurt."
And that's when my heart cracked.
Telling a toddler not to run is like telling them not to breathe. Toddlers wake up running. They run all day long, and they run until they drop into a dead sleep so they can wake up and run some more.
And what's with that I-told-you-so business? Toddlers run, and then toddlers fall. If you don't make a big deal over the fall, nine times out of ten they just get up, shake it off, and start running again. Like little robots.
But why program a kid to expect pain? Running for most toddlers is simply an expression of their natural joie de vivre. I can't tell you how it hurt to hear a little piece of that girl's spirit shrivel up and blow away today.
We should be teaching our children to fly. Correction: they already know how to fly. And as their guides and mentors, all we can really do is just give them enough room to do just that.