FIGURINES & HIGH-FIVES

 

 

Ten-year-old Gertie was beside herself one afternoon early this summer, because her sister was joining us as her guest. The last time had been a year prior; Amanda, two years older, had held herself with impeccable posture and poise on that occasion, allowing an ironic smile to play about her lips as Gertie, exclaiming, attempted to include her sister in her favorite activities. By asking arch and pointed questions, Amanda called attention to the immature nature of Gertie’s play and undermined her confidence as host.

This summer, however, Amanda was generous with her younger sister. She treated her kindly and played by her rules. Gertie delighted in her directive role and soon had us closing our eyes while she buried objects in my sand box for us to find. Feeling around in the cool soft spill of near-white particles, we uncovered shells and gems and fake fossils, cars and keys, dice and a dog dish, various animals, and little painted baby figurines: crawling baby, sleeping baby, baby with a blanket. Then it was Amanda’s turn to hide objects for us; and to help Gertie manage her impatience, her inclination to peek, I suggested that we leave the room and skip up and down in the long hall until we were summoned. That, she seemed to love. Skipping became part of every spell of waiting, sometimes with me, sometimes with Amanda.

Later in the summer, Gertie and I were out for a walk around the grounds—if such a term can be applied to a vast sea of asphalt with a shoreline of rough grass and scrubby trees—when I learned that she had never played Follow the Leader. Therein was a golden opportunity to offer her a healthy, sanctioned chance to take charge, since her interactions at school tended toward bullying behavior. Abused and shamed as a younger child by those she used to live with, she was hungry for acceptance and had a history of forcing herself upon her peers, neither respecting boundaries nor taking no for an answer. Notably, when given the role of leader, she offered me turns unprompted—a sign to me that it was, perhaps, serving as a corrective experience.

Follow the Leader followed us indoors and took up where skipping had left off, as a way of extending play beyond my small square office and into the hall. We walked in slow motion, and backward, and bawk-bawking like chickens. Gradually, inexorably, this turned into running laps.

For an “office-based therapist”—my term of self-introduction when we interview candidates for open positions, of which there are perpetually many; more on that another day—I run an awful lot of laps. And I feel, in doing so, a vertiginous awareness of what it used to be like to weigh almost nothing, my childhood body so light that I could nearly fly. I feel this as kids fly along beside me, colts beside a mare. I give it my all and sometimes even beat them to the far door or, back, to the wall where we land, smack, our hands planting hard.

Starting out, I don’t think Gertie was running for the pure joy of running; she was running to win, and with perfect competitive instinct, she forced me out of my own path, such that I would have had to physically push her to clear my way and run at full speed. I wasn’t going to do that, of course; I just trailed her, back and forth, wall to door to wall. When she announced she needed a break for water, I validated her awareness of that need. We’d stop for water, then start again.

And then something interesting happened. She said, “Go,” but let me take off on my own. Confused, I stopped. She directed me to run without her. So I did, back and forth. She sent me out alone again. This time, however, when I reached the door and turned, she started out from the wall and ran toward me, such that our paths would be crossing halfway. Instinctively, I reached for a high-five.

That became our new game: running separately, as if in a relay, and high-fiving each other in passing. For fun, I introduced variations: two-handed, to the side, down-low. Our palms met perfectly each time, a satisfying clap such as I have rarely known. As we passed my open office door, she must have had her eyes on the clock, for she started curtailing her circuit. Again, I was at first confused—was this a move to gain some advantage?—but she explained, “It’s almost time to go, so I’m shortening it.” So we ran shorter and shorter laps, clapping hands with increasing frequency, until at last we were circling each other, in a kind of do-si-do.

Gertie had gone through a prolonged angry phase over the course of the year, in which she proclaimed to hate her life and the world around her, especially her caregivers. There were exceptions, of course; but literally for months, she looked like she wanted violent revenge for every one of the many wrongs done her. She wore that look even while playing Follow the Leader. When we walked out to the lobby on the first day we ran laps, to rejoin her grandmother, she was wreathed in smiles.

I, too, felt wreathed—as if laurels had been woven and set upon my hair. Because again she had transformed her play, from competition to cooperation. And because I’d seen her face flushed and lit with its former, glorious light.

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“The Numbers Game” (July 2017) will be continued in a future post, when I have more stamina for the topic. Out of respect for client privacy, names here are always changed or omitted. Text and image copyrights held by me. If you enjoyed this piece, I hope you’ll consider sharing it. To subscribe and receive future posts, please look to the upper right on your computer screen, or scroll to the bottom of the page on your mobile device. Thank you for reading!

NEXT TIME YOU MEET A UNICORN

I’m going to step out of my comfort zone today and dispense some very direct, very practical advice: Next time you meet a unicorn, ask for a wish.

It was last Saturday morning, and I was at the farmers’ market, which has thinned considerably at this point in the season. There were gaps between stalls, and the flowers all looked the worse for wear, tatter-petaled. The farmers and their helpers blew on their hands while visitors such as myself eyed their squashes and greens.

Into this autumnal scene came a unicorn on a bicycle. Really! Okay, outwardly she might have been a preschooler with a novelty helmet, but I looked past the (to me, hideous) molded plastic, to her own magical nature, and addressed her with astonishment and wonder.

“Are you the mythical lost unicorn I’ve been hearing about?!” I asked. She looked at me with what I would describe as uncertain pride, and after hesitating, she nodded.

“Oh!” I said. “Then will you please, please grant me my wish?” I pressed my hands together like a steeple in supplication. A moment more of confusion,with something like pleasure crisscrossing her expression, then she waved her hand at me and said, “Wish!” (It looks like a command, but it felt like a bestowal.)

So I closed my eyes, and I did.

There is a telegraphy that flashes back and forth between parents and myself, as we meet somewhere and I note the unicorn (or fairy or caped crusader) accompanying them. I speak to children or not depending on my sense of their parents’ comfort, which is frequently important to ensure a child’s own comfort anyway.

Other important elements of my methodology: I don’t talk too loudly; I don’t stand too close or even lean into their personal space. (What “too” means to any given person is a felt matter, of course, but my instincts are usually pretty good in that regard.) I don’t linger. And of crucial importance? Tone.

Humor and playfulness can be empowering; they can just as easily feel exclusive, or worse. Children are exquisitely sensitive to the ways the world deals with them, so I try to speak to them in a manner that says, “I’m making this up for fun and you’re in on the fun! But also, by the way, magic is real—and you can be in on that, too.”

 

spotted wren-babbler (Elachura formosa)

 

And speaking of magic, this photograph made my day. (Click here for attribution.)