Frances Friday: Emotional Overexcitability

Frances climbed behind me on the couch Wednesday night, "hiding," and pressed her two soft feet against my lower back. "Guess where I am, Mummy?"

"I don't know," I said slowly, and reached behind myself. "Hmm. There are knees, a tummy, some hair..." Frances shrieked in laughter. "And some feet! What nice feet, I think I'll keep them."

"No!" She thumped back against the couch.

I looked behind me; her lips were trembling, her eyes were red. "Oh sweetie, I was just kidding, I'm not actually going to take your feet."

"You can't have them! They're my feet!"

"I know, I don't even want them. I would never take them. It was just a joke, honeybun. I'm sorry it made you so sad."

"It did. It made me sad. They're my feet. You shouldn't take them."

I picked her up and snuggled her on my lap. "I am sorry, sweet girl, it was just a joke. How would I take your feet anyway? They're attached."

"Yeah. That's because they are a body part. Body parts don't come off."

"No, they don't--and what would I do with your feet? Why, if I had your feet, I'd be falling over all the time."

"That would be silly."

"And if you had my feet--you couldn't even lift them! You'd be stuck!"

She nodded.

"So I'll keep my big feet on my big legs and you keep the little feet on your little legs, ok? And I won't joke about taking your feet anymore."

It took a few more rounds of this, over say about twenty minutes, for me to convince her that I really had no interest in taking or keeping her feet, and was very sorry for making her sad, but wasn't it really kind of silly to think of me with her feet? Silly Mummy.

(And yet I remember, when I was her age, being sent to my room when I couldn't stop crying after someone had physically hurt me.)

Last night was the daycare parent-teacher interview. Erik and S (Frances's main teacher at the daycare) and I sat on three child-sized chairs in the music room while Frances played with lego, and we agreed on how generally wonderful Frances is, how she is bright and has no trouble using the room which is much too big for her and how her writing has been getting better and better and how many friends she has and how her classmates are so attached to her, and how maybe it would be good if she could learn a little better how to put her own snowpants on. "She gets her stuff," said S, "her coats and pants and boots, and then just lays back"--and here she mimed a starfish shape, "as if--'your turn.'"

We all laughed. "She's been like that forever. I honestly think she learned to walk at 20 months just because she liked to have other people carry her around."

S nodded. "The only other thing I'd like to point out is this one." She pointed to the spot on her form labelled 'Is sometimes scared by noises or new situations.' There was a tentative tick beside it. "People just tower over her, you know, and sometimes they do or say something and it's frightening for her and she cries."

I nodded. "She's very sensitive."

"Yes!" said S.

I turn around to see where Frances is rolling on the floor, now bored with lego and ready to leave for her weekend with Daddy. "And it's not a bad thing, sweetie."

"No, no," said S. "It just means we have to be a bit more delicate."

(And yet I remember when I was very young and at church with my parents, once, and crying over something--I can't remember what--and my parents were both there, and the church's two child programming directors, not that they were called that. They were two women who seemed old to me at the time but were probably the age I am now, both with very short hair, one very blond and one brunette, who obviously genuinely loved children. One of my parents, I can't remember which, called me a crybaby and complained that I cried all the time. "Aww," said the brunette one, "don't you know that crying makes you not pretty? Pretty girls don't cry.")

Then after, I gave Erik Frances's suitcase for their weekend together in the parking lot and got my goodbye hug from my little girl, and we all chatted for a few moments, and Frances told us how one day she is going to grow one of the tiny eggs in her tummy into a baby! "When you are a grown up lady," I said to her. "Yes," said Erik, "A long time from now."

She went to Erik's car and I went to mine and I was getting in to drive away when I heard a "Bye Mummy!" and I turned, with a smile on my face, but then saw how her face had folded inwards, the eyes redenning even at that distance. "Aww," said Erik, picking her up. "It's ok. You'll see Mummy on Saturday."

I wanted to go over but I knew it would just draw it out--she would get happier faster if I left, we play this scene out at my place sometimes over Daddy--so I drove away.

(And I remember how one of the rules at my house was that you could not cry when speaking to my father, ever, not for any reason. "If you want to speak to an adult you have to speak like an adult" was the way it was put, or close enough; and if I couldn't manage it, I would be, at best, sent to my room until I could.)

I thought how wonderful it was that Frances was surrounded by adults who not only care about her, and who not only recognize how sensitive she is, but see it as a good thing and as something she needs to learn how to manage, something they are willing to help her learn how to deal with, not as a bad thing that needs to be mocked or hit out of her.

Posted by Andrea at February 22, 2008 8:16 AM under Frances Friday

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