'Toddlers are great, especially when you can give them back'
How I discovered the joy of loving other people's children
It really does take a village - or a London suburb - to raise a child. This is a lesson I’ve learnt having spent two months living with my cousin and her family; centered quite rightly around a wildly intelligent, funny little soul who is not yet three.
In my early twenties I was obsessed with the idea of having my own children. I studied Child Development when I was 16 - which, according to my friend, means I went to a posh school because it’s such a pointless sounding subject aimed at those who don’t need to work for money - and was a regular volunteer at the creche in my church. I loved spending time with children and they seemed to love me back. My plan was to be married with children (2, 3?) by the time I was 24. Lol. As it happens, I was engaged at 24, but the rest of that dream has not followed quite so smoothly.
After losing my daughter to early death shortly after birth, I hated seeing other people pregnant. It felt like I was being taunted by their full, healthy abdomens. It was harder when I saw friends with newborns. I wanted to coo over their bundles of joy but I couldn’t, because they weren’t mine. If this sounds selfish; it’s because, as I’ve recently realised, it is. Children are an incredible gift from God. They are a blessing and it’s our job to help them grow into independent adults. What I failed to understand, when bemoaning the lack of my own offspring, is that this responsibility lies not just on the parents. The extended family, teachers, friends, church family - all who come into prolonged contact with children - where permitted by parents of course - have a responsibility to care for them.
So back to my niece: delightful but truly exhausting. My cousin, her main carer, has an insane amount of patience, but as anyone with kids will testify, toddlers are a lot. But while I was there, when my cousin was worn out, my niece could then wear me out while her mother re-charged. I’m an early riser so when I got up in the morning, my niece would join me for breakfast (Her: dried porridge with fruit or chin chin, depending on her mood. Me: coconut yoghurt, walnuts and blueberries) and we’d tackle a colouring book or do a puzzle together.
We became reading buddies too. She’s bilingual and when she picked a French book for me to read, I’d struggle through while she looked confused at the stories Papa read to her but were almost unrecognisable when I read them. Initially when I tried to stop she would insist: “No, try!”. But one day she looked up at me and took the book away: “No. English.” At some point she started making up stories for me: “Once upon a time, there was a baby...and the witch ate her!” which would have her laughing hysterically at my horrified expression. Although to be honest, I’m not sure why I was surprised. Have you read the Brothers Grimm fairy tales for children?? If not, the name is pretty self-explanatory.
So we got along, this little child and I. She is not mine and yet I love her with every fibre of my being and I care for her more than I have for any other child. I can’t say I miss her typical toddler style obsession with poo and now I’m back in my own home, I quite like being able to eat what I want without it being pilfered by inquisitive sticky fingers. But if she ever needed me, now or in the future, I know that I would be there for her.
Doll x