If you talk less, they listen more

My father’s attitude to looking after multiple grandchildren was rather unique. I like to think he had an odd mixture of backgrounds that lead to experimentation. His mother had died when he was very young (around two or three) so in one way he could easily relate to lonely and unusual children. Fortunately, his mother was one of 12 siblings so, on the other hand, there was an excess of aunts and uncles and cousins to lavish care and attention on him.  His sociability probably sprang from this huge extended network which he took long road trips to renew and strengthen over the decades.

Then, he was the headmaster of a secondary school and had taught in the UK, Canada and Australia. That gave him ample opportunity to get to know the developing mind of a wide range of youngsters. So, when he had grandchildren one would have figured he would use his extensive educational experience to great advantage.

However, he claimed that the best way to look after a herd of grandchildren was to leave them alone. He would generally take them to a huge flat beach where they could walk for miles and only get ankle-deep in the sea. Then, he would studiously ignore the children but follow them from a safe distance. He claimed parents were far too interfering with instructions like “Take your socks off”, “Keep your shoes on”, “Where is your coat!” “Do you need a drink?” Or be the font of too much useless information, “This is a limestone rock”, “Here is the shell of a mollusc” or “This sea is called the Atlantic?”

Or constantly made fear-inducing statements like “You could easily drown”, “The sun is really bad for your skin”, “That dog might bite”, “Beware of strangers”, “You could easily get lost, be careful”.

Instead, he felt that silence allowed the child to really explore their environment in a much more personal and intimate way. He discovered a herd of small children usually unconsciously appoints a natural leader and they keep the group together. All his energy would then be devoted to ensuring safety not distracting conversations. Adults feel the need to talk, inform, respond, elucidate to each other but especially to children. The frightening reality, he claimed, was that most talk is just gibberish and many of us have come to so many false conclusions it might be much safer to opt for silence instead.

Children were clean slates ready to write their own reality, he felt, and thought it really unfair to interfere or mess them up. This hands-off attitude changed when he had just one child in hand. Then, he’d question them mercilessly trying to work out how they thought, what they valued, their views on things etc. It was that unique ability to flick from silent bystander of the group to loving inquisitor of the single child that build epic bonds with children. When children sense you don’t need them to be an audience they relax. If you talk less, they listen more when you do speak. If you respect their space both physically and mentally they sometimes gain much more.

A friend recently described being in Africa on the savannah and learning that by walking a few steps in one direction stopping and then heading in another and stopping repeatedly, the nearby animals grew used to his presence and began ignoring him. To them, he just seemed to be another grazing animal. 

Perhaps by adopting the same approach with young children we can get the necessary closeness to observe the important interactions they’re experiencing rather than our own flawed expectations.

These old bones and tendons do not bend and stretch

I’m in Gatwick about to fly home to Malta after three weeks of being a granny to active grandsons in the UK. They filled every morning with hugs and smiles at my bedside. They ran with an abundance of energy that no 60-year-old could match.

At first, my plan was to exhaust all their energy by huge walks along the coast near Folkestone. Very quickly, I learned that however far we covered the boys once fed were good to go again almost immediately. Huge adventure playgrounds, I discovered, are heart-attack places for grannies. Your child, a toddler disappears into a labyrinth high above you jostled by millions of older children. 

You cannot follow. These old bones and tendons do not bend and stretch. The elder one returns in one piece but the smaller is crying in pain somewhere in this madhouse of children, parents, psychos with ladders and drops everywhere. I follow his distinct loud cry and find him roaring at the bottom of huge metallic snake-like slide. He holds out his arms to me for comfort and we sit hugging both his pain and my absolute mind-numbing fear of having lost my grandchild away. I decide playgrounds are not safe places. It seems that one in every ten children there is roaring because they’ve fallen, been pushed, have cut their knees or banged their head or are totally lost. I determined to exit this dreadful place with two under-fives and say never again. If I had to go through this once more I’d be in heart-attack country.

Instead, I learned to be wily and conserve my energy while using theirs. I would go to the huge green park behind their house and in encourage them to roll balls down steep hills. That way they would race down, again and again, staggering up steep slopes while I sat at the top conserving my limited reserves of energy.

When with small children you find yourself smiling a lot. They ask questions that take your breath away about dying, life, sweets, bullying and then off they go at top speed. I want to summon up the very best of me to meet this challenge. To banish meanness or deflection. To answer and engage honestly. But as energy levels bottom, the challenges become harder.

I fight the weariness and try to hold tight to good humour. They deserve to be safe and nurtured. It should be the very least I achieve. But being older at least give you experience and a certain kind of knowledge of what works for you and what doesn’t. What counts against you is the terrifying responsibility. The need for constant vigilance, watching where they are and what they do. Being older one sees potential dangers on all sides. A moment of absentmindedness or distraction, this must be fought at all costs. But this war of attrition wears you down. I watch their parents carry this load lightly. Wrestling, throwing them around wasting valuable energy. Putting on music and dancing with the children, exuberant with their love and time. I marshal energy resources as if it was my last breath. Determined to make it last until little heads are fast asleep, safe in bed with pyjamas and all snug. Then the edifice collapses I fold into bed as if clubbed. Desperate that my battery is recharged. A miracle of rejuvenation is necessary!  It comes early when just after 6 AM two little angels come to my bedside again. Then, drawing deep from hugs and kisses, granny emerges from her cocoon to fly for love again.

“Love is the cause of God’s revelation unto man, the vital bond inherent, in accordance with the divine creation, in the realities of things.  Love is the one means that ensureth true felicity both in this world and the next.  Love is the light that guideth in darkness, the living link that uniteth God with man, that assureth the progress of every illumined soul.”

Baha’is Writings

British Summer - ill prepared, sweaty, burnt but splendid

In the garden, outside Folkestone with my feet in a bucket of cold water to cool down. UK residents are unused to such soaring temperatures!  

The British wilt and moan and find sweating just not PC. Usually lashed with gentle rain, they are ill-equipped for heat waves. Our climate changes in the UK normally necessitate simple choices, jumper on or jumper off. Not shorts and no socks. Even finding footwear is suddenly challenging. How to cope without socks? We British reach a stage of undress in heatwaves that we would not deem appropriate in the privacy of our own bedrooms. 

In such a state sweat lubricates unexpected social interactions. These are normally only attained with abundant alcoholic beverages to loosen tight-lipped inhibitions. Feet with velociraptor toenails are suddenly on display. 

In blazing sunshine, shoulder hair is exhibited with abandon everywhere. They expose themselves to complete strangers in ways they only show reluctantly to their GPs under pain and duress.

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One gets a glimpse of social change triggered by climate change. At such sudden temperature shifts cultures sustain earthquake-like damage. Reserve comes tumbling down. The stiff upper lip quivers. Engagement with others, across the gardens burnt brown, burst forth. 

All this will change, of course, with the onset of rain and the clouds of autumn.  But in this heat wave of a summer, unexpected flowers spring in a wondrous diversity of colours. Possibilities of interactions undreamed of becoming common. Unable to mow our tiny patches of green perfection we reach out instead to other humans. Undressed, sweaty and ill-prepared we launch exciting interactions here and there. Like a Vikings on unknown raids, daring all. It’s a splendid thing – a sunny English summer!