Social Butterfly

Darwin's Radio is based on an interesting premise: what if evolution didn't take place gradually, over eons, but in a single generation? What if there were biological mechanisms that switched genes on and off in response to environmental stimuli so that a mother could give birth to a child of a different species than herself? Ignoring the book's many irritating problems, such as the otherwise-interesting and intelligent female protagonist who did all the background science of the novel but who, when faced with scientific skepticism, decided to prove it the old-fashioned way and so, yes, fulfilled her true destiny and calling by becoming a mother--ignoring all that, as I say, the basic idea remains compelling to me because otherwise I am at a loss to explain how exactly it is that my daughter is such an extrovert. A very sensitive and sometimes shy extrovert, but an extrovert nevertheless.

Yesterday evening, Erik's brother and his family came to town for a visit (henceforth to be referred to as BIL, SIL, LH and BB--the latter two acronyms for anyone who might remember their visit around this time last year). LH and BB, our two nephews who are five and two respectively and both nearing their birthdays, have nothing in common with Frances. They are big for their ages. They like rough-and-tumble play involving trucks and as much noise as they can muster--not that Frances doesn't like this on occasion, but these two enjoy it to the exclusion of just about everything else. They like to throw things around, dump things on the floor, scream "Don't take my picture! Don't take my picture! Take my picture now!" while running around like over-caffeinated banshees at the local playground. In short, they are wholly normal. You could write out their behaviour and traits and cut out their photos and paste it up in Dr. Spock's childrearing book.

So, one might say, they provide an interesting contrast to my own wee girl. One might assume, moreover, that said wee girl might find them intimidating, or overwhelming. Unless one happens to know that she is an extrovert.

Picture this: The adults are in the kitchen at the table, eating their pizza slices peacefully, when they notice that the children are quiet--too quiet. "I'll see what they're up to," I say. Are they in the front hall? No. Tormenting the cat in the laundry room? No. They can't be upstairs? But they are! All three, in the guest room, bouncing on the air mattresses. (More on that later.)

LH: I let us up. I know how to unlock the baby gate.

Andrea: So I see!

LH: I wanted to get my money. They followed me.

Frances: It's BB and LH! It's BB and LH! Look, Mummy! It's BB and LH!

Andrea: It sure is! Do you guys want to come back downstairs?

Frances: NO!

BB shakes his head.

LH: OK. I'll bring my money with me.

LH tears off for the stairs; BB follows him; and Frances goes running after. As I marshall them all around the gate--the hall is narrow there and the gate takes up most of the room unless you walk around it a particular way--LH runs down the stairs, and BB walks after him, walking properly while holding the bars under the railing. And Frances, for the first time ever, refuses to go down the stairs backwards on her knees but insists instead on walking down them properly while holding on to the bars too--even though at 29", believe me, it's not an easy feat.

Picture this: After supper, the kids are going berserk in the guest room, where all three have decided that bouncing on the air mattresses is the coolest game ever. The two boys prefer the Running Jump method, a practice that SIL is eager to stop, with much "Stop that! Stop that right now! BB! LH! No more jumping on the bed!" to no avail. Frances sits up near the pillow clutching a stuffed puppy in each arm tight to her shoulders, with a huge grin on her face, bouncing gently on her bum. You might think she would be scared of the running, the jumping, the mattress's convulsions following the jumping; but no. Each leap delights her. The mattress convulses, and she laughs, a throaty chorttle. "Mummy, look! It's BB and LH. It's BB and LH, Mummy!"

The adults, confronted with a roomful of hyperactive childhood, decide it might be best to brave the threatening rainstorm and take them to the park before bed. Off we go. BB and Frances ride in the wagon; when we are most of the way there, we see a young rabbit, not quite fullgrown, in the middle of a grassy field. Frances watches it quietly from the wagon; BB vaults out and chases it across the park.

Once both of them are loosed from the wagon and the poor little bunny has been terrified into a neighbour's yard, LH and BB run as fast as they can to the park. BB is only three months older than Frances, but he has eight inches on her and his run really takes him places. But Frances's wee legs, as beautiful and marvellous as they are, are not quite as efficient. So what does she do? Run, of course. The bigger kids have long left her behind without noticing, and not much they could do about it even if they wanted to, when Frances's run is so much slower than their walks. But she runs her heart out to try to keep up. At the park proper, LH climbs up the metal ladder on the big kid's playground; BB follows him; Frances stands at the bottom and watches. "I go up, Mummy," she says.

"I don't know, kiddo. I think it might be a bit big for you. Do you want to go up the bridge on the other side?"

She shakes her head, and grasps the lower rung.

"Do you need some help?"

"Yeah."

I help her--which amounts to me lifting her up, touching her feet briefly to each rung so she has "climbed" it, and then planting her firmly on the playground's deck; then clamber after her to help her negotiate all of the other big steps and drops that are no big deal for LH and BB. When there is one that she can manage herself, and she does, she cries "I did it all by myself, Mummy!" But this is only fun for a few minutes. It's one thing to play by yourself on the big kid's playground with Mummy and some other kids, strange kids; but when it's your own beloved cousins you can't keep up with, it loses its lustre. She went on the swings instead with Daddy.

Then it started to rain, and we went home. Once again, Frances and BB shared the wagon.

"That's BB, Mummy," she said, and laughed.

If it were me, small and quiet and sometimes shy, now hosting two large and rambunctious boys who--to be brutally honest--don't much want to play with me, I'd be desperately trying to think of some way, any way, I could curl up in the corner and read a book without looking like an antisocial freak. Of course, I am an antisocial freak, but I don't want to look like one.

Not Frances. She throws herself into the fray, laughing. She doggedly tags along. She runs with them even when she can't keep up. She is joyful just to be in their presence, even though they don't even seem to notice her. LH tries hard to get the attention of Erik and I but I don't know if he even sees Frances, and he's at the girls-have-cooties stage so he definitely won't touch her. In fact, when it was bedtime and we were asking the children to give each other a goodnight hug and kiss (which BB obliged willingly, to a chorus of adult "awwwwww"s), he wrapped himself up in a blanket and writhed, "No! Don't kiss me! Don't kiss me!" he cried. But Frances went over, wrapped her arms around that squiggly bulk and kissed the heaving blanket top, not seeming to feel it as a rejection in the slightest.

She did not want to use the potty. She did not want to brush her teeth. She did not want to put on her pyjamas. And she most emphatically did not want to go to bed.

Picture This: It is morning. Erik woke up Frances, who greeted him as she does most mornings: "Want to go surprise Mummy?"

So I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes so she could "surprise" me. As it does most mornings, this took the form of wanting to lay down on the big bed for a few minutes. She curled herself around the mole on my arm and said, "Want to go in the upstairs front room and see BB and LH?"

That was the theme of the morning. She did not want to put her clothes on. She did not want to use the potty. She did not want to eat her cheerios. She definitely, absolutely, positively did NOT want to go see all her friends at daycare. She wanted to go in the upstairs front room to see BB and LH. When Erik carried her out the front door this morning, she was crying.

It is, in part, heartbreaking: Frances might not see it as rejection, but I do; and it gives me a foretaste of things to come. Other kids who don't want to wait for the small girl to catch up, who want to play games that she can't join; other times when she wants desperately to play with them and keep up but the short legs and short arms won't let her.

It would be so easy for her to be discouraged. Wouldn't you be? If you were Frances and had two very large boys as guests, who play roughly, who don't much want to play with you, who won't wait, who like games you can't play, who don't notice that you feel excluded, wouldn't you be discouraged? I would be. I'd give up. But not Frances. She not only persists, but is overjoyed to do so.

It has me in awe. To face a towering obstacle and keep going at it, to face rejection and persist, to be left behind and keep going anyway, and then to be happy about it, and not just happy but brimming with happiness, smiling and laughing and loving every minute of it--that's amazing. She is truly the best person I've ever met.

And it's that spirit, that love of life and people even when they are less than loveable, that I think is going to take her far in life despite her challenges. She keeps going and keeps smiling when anyone else would have given up.

Posted by Andrea at June 30, 2006 8:30 AM under Being Small

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