When Noah was not yet two, I found him hanging by one hand from the outside railing of a two story stairwell over a concrete patio below. He had swung his way to the top with casual ease, while I, like a game hunter, slowly, carefully, inched toward him from our upstairs apartment, until thwack, my hands clapped onto his shirt collar and my super-maternal strength hauled his dangling body to the safe side of the rails.
I’ve found Noah in trees; on top of brick walls; on the roof; outside the window of his bedroom, three stories up; two streets over; in the middle of the street; in a neighbor’s apartment; on top of a cliff (while my back was turned) and down in a ditch. To stop his risky inquisitiveness, I had to haul my usually pregnant, bulging body at lightening speed without pee dripping down my legs to get below, beyond, next to or on top of Noah before he broke bones, was kidnapped or cracked open his skull.
When I was pregnant with Johannah and Noah had just turned two, I lived in missionary housing. We all shared a quad with play equipment and spent every morning and afternoon with other families gossiping and supervising children. Our favorite topic: the poor parenting techniques of the mothers not currently present.
Being endowed with a brain at birth, it didn’t take me long to figure out what happened when I wasn’t there. I asked my friend Kris: “So it occurred to me that if I have opinions about everyone else’s right to spank or not, their scheduled breast feedings and swings, versus slings and the perennial baby-on-the-boob tactic of my preference, there must be a few opinions about how I’m wrecking my child forever. Would you mind telling me what it is I need to do to be a better mother?”
Kris, being classy, offered to think and pray about it for 24 hours. When we reconvened, she shared the following idea with me: “Julie,” she said, “I’ve noticed that your body is Noah’s boundary. You run in every direction to stop him from doing what he shouldn’t do. Look at you! You’ve lost weight, you’re sick. He needs to learn to respect your words. And he needs to learn that now.”
clunk
The words dropped into place and I felt so thankful for that guidance. Her vision launched me on a path to create a relationship with Noah dependent on words, not my physical acts of obstruction.
So the next time I said, “Stop!” (meaning: get down, don’t go there, turn back or What the Hell Do You think You’re Doing?), I made sure that I followed it up with some kind of discipline. We started with the venerable Time Out. I told Noah he had to stay in the bathroom until I told him he could come back to the family. As I walked through the door to leave him alone with the toilet, he followed me. I repeated: “No, you have to stay here, until I say you can come out. Understand?” He understood. I walked out. He followed me.
Hmmm. If I sit on him in the bathroom, or if I hold the door shut, isn’t that using my body to get him to do what I say? Yet he isn’t doing what I say. What if I give in and follow the “spank on command” strategies I oppose? But then isn’t that yet another way my body is stopping him and not my words? So I kept talking and Noah kept walking. I talked louder and he just walked faster. There was absolutely no way I could make Noah stay in the bathroom with words.
In fact, the more I tried to make my words stick, the less effective I felt. Worse, we went from the interdependence of my body being Noah’s non-judgmental boundary to Noah’s increased shame as I piled words on top of him (hurtful, resentful, nagging, cajoling, guilt-laden words).
For the next fifteen years, Jon and I used every word in the book to influence Noah’s decisions about his life: his friends, his music, what he read, where he went, his education, how he drives, his values and any other life area we could nag into matching our vision of what it ought to look like.
We’ve had many great conversations. We’ve also had many shameful ones when our words fell flat or scorched his tender heart— the end result: despair, hurt, painful memories; words that required apologies, even years later.
And for all that: what hasn’t changed? Noah. He’s not guided by our words. We can take away a car, we can limit the funds we give him, we can choose not to co-sign apartments (if we want to), but our words don’t stop him. Instead, now we ask ourselves: “What do we need to do to feel right about our relationship with Noah?” We don’t ask ourselves, “What should we tell Noah to do so he’ll make good decisions?” (Though inevitably, as a stupid moth to a bright flame, we often still blunder forward with our Valuable Opinions until we remember again.)
Noah is guided by an inner impulse that we can limit only as far as we have physical control, just as it’s always been. As Jon used to say: “Age and Maturity will be Noah’s best friends.” Noah, from the time he was born, has had an incalculable confidence in his ability to manage his life. Lucky for us, he grew up so he finally can!
It struck me the other day as I thought back to Kris’ well-intended advice. She was right about one thing – I was running myself ragged setting the boundaries with my body, my whole self thrown extravagantly into the abyss that is “limiting Noah.” But in the end, it’s the only thing that ever worked without causing emotional damage. It turns out, this is just who he is and has always been. I have a hunch, it’s who he’ll continue to be as well. And on this side of it, I’m in awe of who Noah is and the sheer genius of his brave embrace of life.
Yay for the end of spring!
