Children

Watching the twins I nanny for go to bed is the most fascinating experience for me. The one always falls asleep first, after a little over five minutes his breathing has slowed and he doesn’t feel me move from the edge of his bed to his brothers’. But his brother takes much longer, shuffling from position to position, at times whispering to himself, playing games inside his head. I am reminded of when I was a child attempting to go to bed, sneaking stories with my stuffed animals for what felt like ages, but was probably no more than fifteen minutes, after my parents shut the light off. This second twin tends to drift off with his arms above his head, like he’s fallen from the sky to gently land on his navy blue bed (originally this angelic reference was unintentional, but I think it fits so I’m going to leave it). Once I see him begin to yawn, and his arms reach up, I know he’s close to dreaming.

These children sometimes startle me with their innocence, and frighten me with their naiveté. Their clean slate has yet to be tarnished; society has yet to ruin them with its reality and truth. They trust too easily, already climbing onto my lap for reading the second night I’d met them. It’s a trust that warms my heart, feeling attached far too early, but I also wonder how long they will remember me. How I’ll stand out amongst the mass of brunette babysitters and au pairs that their childhood will be made up of. But that’s probably just my cynicism coming out – society has already ruined me.

For these boys, games still have no winners, because that’s what’s most fair and prevents tears and tantrums, never mind the fact that the world absolutely doesn’t work that way. I struggle between wanting to shelter them from all evil, and wanting to shake them to wake them up to the terrors of the world. They live in a fantasy world where bees are trapped in ears, and a squiggle on a piece of paper is a rocket ship defending the world from evil. We speak ‘British’ at times – a new language from a foreign land far away and unfamiliar. They have easily manipulated minds that we would have at one point called gullible. Unhappiness is forgotten with a new toy, or cat outside of the window; laughter bubbling out before the tears have even dried on their cheeks.

The most endearing element of these children though is their seriousness and self-assurance that what they see and believe is true. Absolutely this tennis court is a fortress, and the white tennis balls bring good luck. Yes the living room floor is a sea that we must row across in boats that look startlingly similar to chairs in my eyes. It doesn’t matter, they can see it. And it makes me sad to realize that eventually, they’ll stop being able to see it. We will take it away from them, distracted by our lives and ‘real’ problems, not willing to indulge in their imaginations any longer. And by we I mean society, adults, education – we’ll all do it in the belief that eventually one needs to grow up. While I agree that children tend to be pampered and protected more so than necessary these days – it’s hard not to – some of our best thinkers, and artists, and creative minds, are people who never completely grew up. Children are inspiring, because their minds have not been closed yet, they have not yet felt judged, and as a result, are much freer than most of us will ever hope to be again.

Being around the boys brings back memories from my childhood, that were once tucked in a far corner of my mind. I understand the high pitch voice they use when playing with toys, how that becomes the narrator of their new story. I get why, at times, every small thing that goes wrong can be seen as the crumbling of their world, resulting in tantrums that are seemingly never ending. Being six – which once seemed so foreign and far away – makes sense again. I am fascinated with the books I read to them at night, the beautiful drawings and clever storylines. Being able to master Lego directions feels like an immense accomplishment – because to them it is – as does the moment when they are all finally in bed and have bathed and brushed their teeth. It’s the small things after all.

My perspective shifts when I am with the boys, and I’m trying to hold onto that feeling, because it’s unique and unfamiliar to me. But at the same time, the work never ends. Children are demanding, they demand time and attention and energy and effort. They are incapable of taking care of themselves, and you must be there to help them with small things that seem like second nature to us now. It never stops, unless they are sleeping, which is a tentative time as noise, and bad dreams, and wetting the bed could change that at any moment. I am exhausted, and this is only my job, it’s not yet my life. Perhaps it will never be, because part of my exhaustion comes from seeing how exhausted the parents are. They wake up and take care of their children, they work all day, and come home to the children once again, who need food, and discipline, and love. From the moment your child takes their first breath, you are always on. You never again get to clock out and go home. You give your life up for another human being, and that is quite a commitment to make.

Sylvia Plath believed that it was her responsibility as an artist to be a mother and raise children. The molding and forming of a person was the highest form of art to her, and I get it. As a creative person, I understand. But I’m not sure I will ever be ready to give up everything for someone else. I wonder if all couples consider this before deciding to have children? I wonder if all couples have the conversation about how life as they know it will be over, or if they simply dive right in after an appropriate amount of time post-wedding because that’s what society tells them they should do. White picket fence and 2.5 kids. I guess I’ll find out when, and if, I ever get there. But I’ve never been one to blindly listen to society, no matter how hard it screams.