I’m trying to raise a sweet, sensitive boy, and I just really don’t want to screw this up. It’d be helpful to know how best to raise a sweet, sensitive boy. Here’s what I’m learning…
It occurs to me that each child presents his or her own particular sets of personality-driven challenges. Take Nova, for instance. Already, not even a year-and-a-half old, she is all personality: sassy, willful, bold, super independent, and free-spirited. She is wild and she is fun and she keeps. us. on. our. toes. I don’t want to, in any way, extinguish that fire, even though I know I may get burned by it from time to time. It presents some difficulty, the fact that she is fierce and fearless…
The Fearless and the Fearful
Orson, on the other hand, my dear, sweet, tender Orson Kurt…he is not fearless. For all the ways in which he is so different from the amazing Nova Mira, he is equally as miraculous.
He is sensitive, craves affection and connection. He’s studious, thrives on routine, loves to people-please and ham it up around his loved ones. He kisses his toy dinosaurs and wishes his Hot Wheels goodnight when it’s bedtime, and it absolutely melts me every time that he does.
But he is not fearless. And we feel helpless to help him.
It requires a constant reminder to myself to be more present-minded, to try to be more grounded in this moment with my son, to not be fearful of how his anxieties may hold him back developmentally in the future. The future hasn’t happened yet. It isn’t real. What is real are the feeble cries of “All done!” when I try to encourage Orson to go down the tiniest slide at the playground.
The separation anxiety at bedtime is real. At least, ever since we converted his crib to a toddler day bed. Orson and Nova absolutely love the configuration of his new bed all day, climbing in and out of it, flipping through their books on it…Orson proudly jumps out of it in the morning and after naptime, points to it, shouting and smiling “Bed! Big!” But when it comes to actually laying him down to go to sleep, without the extra wall of perceived protection from the BIG open freedom his whole bedroom offers, he’s restless and scared and cries.
Finding a Way Through
With fears like these, we try to offer support to him as best as we can. We know the bed thing is a big transition. It’s helped somewhat at bedtime, offering a few extra minutes of consolation. Mama and Papa “draw” hearts with our fingertips on his little palms, and he, in turn, draws hearts on our palms.
We tell him, “Alright, sweet boy, that means that you are in our hearts, and we are in yours. You aren’t alone because we’re connected. You’re safe, we love you. Night-night.”
As soon as I go to leave the room, he leaps out of bed wailing. I tell him that I love him and shut the door behind me, immediately to go retrieve the baby monitor so that we can offer him soothing words through the mic. He is calming faster, but his sleep has definitely been affected.
This morning, the consequences of his poor sleep really played out at Sunday School…
My Sweet, Sensitive Boy in Sunday School
We’ve never been paged to come to retrieve either of the babies before today. I went immediately to the room Orson was in, and sure enough, he was having a ROUGH time. Tearful, crying, snot streaming down his face. I picked him up in a tight embrace and held him a few moments with no change in his affect.
I gave him water and asked him if he wanted to take a walk and get some fresh air…”Outside!” was his response, so out we went and paced back and forth on the sidewalk, his little hand in mine.
When I started leading him back toward the entrance of the church, he tensed up and started crying again. This little boy of mine was just having a tough time this morning. Calmly, I picked him up, carried him inside, and went to the Quiet Room: a nice, dimly lit room with comfortable seating and a TV broadcasting the sermon quietly…
Orson curled up in my lap, laid his head against me, as I stroked his hair and consoled him. I felt his body get heavy as he relaxed. His breathing deepened, and I even suspected that after a few minutes, he might’ve fallen asleep. After giving him some quiet time to regulate, I offered him the choice: Would you like to play or stay?
I was so proud of him for this. He pointed to the door, so I slowly set him down, took his hand, and led him all the way back to childrens’ church. He was brave and he tried, but once we got inside the room, he broke down all over again. Once I told him we could leave, he calmed quickly and sweetly waved and said “Bye-bye!” to everyone we passed.
How To Raise a Sweet, Sensitive Boy
I believe I handled the whole scenario the best way that I possibly could have for the moment. But the fear still creeps in. Is my parenting sufficient? Am I helping Orson cultivate bravery and self-confidence and security? Or am I “coddling” him by trying to show him respect and safety and build trust in our relationship? Obviously, that question is rhetorical.
But it does come up in conversations with Nathan. He and I were both extremely sensitive children. For different reasons, we didn’t feel that it was appropriate and had to rein it in. Personally, I know my parents, my father in particular, felt that it was super important to “toughen me up” so that I could handle the world. Y’know, the whole “world can’t break you if your parents already have” philosophy of parenting…
The number of times I heard my parents recount the tales (with annoyance) of how my separation anxiety manifested as a child, needing “Hug, kiss, hug, kiss” before I would finally relent and go to bed…
The Struggle is Real
I see my son struggling and my first thought isn’t about how it’s inconveniencing or annoying to me. I’m terrified that I’ll be damned if I do, damned if I don’t. If I push him, while he’s whimpering “All done!”, eyes welling up with tears, to go down a slide that, for whatever reason, terrifies him, or to try to make him stay in Sunday School when he’s dysregulated, or to let him cry it out all alone in his room without support, maybe he will “toughen up” eventually.
But I know that shouldn’t be the goal.
So I offer support and never push him out of his comfort zone, what happens? Will he naturally grow in intrinsic motivation, rise to challenges, face his fears…or will he sink deeper into them? I get it, even while writing this, I’m doing my death spiral into catastrophizing. I’m so friggin’ good at it, though.
Encouragement VS Control
I guess, ultimately, Orson is 2½ years old. He has his whole life ahead of him to grow. How can I possibly help him in any sort of way if I haven’t shown up for him as a stable source of comfort when he is so unsure? It’s a big scary world he sees right now, and Mama and Papa have the privilege of being his anchors.
I’d rather see him grow to try to push himself to do something he’s afraid of than to add further fear by forcing something upon him. I guess what I’m asking for is a magic bullet answer that would alleviate his anxieties, because his fear makes me uncomfortable. Instead of being there for who my son is now, supporting him now in the challenges he will have to learn to overcome, I become fearful of how I think it could hold some future him back.
I just want know how to raise my sweet, sensitive boy in the most supportive way that I can, and I really don’t want to fail him. I suppose what that means in the present is making room for him to be the sweet, sensitive boy he currently is, reminding him that all of his feelings are okay, and that sometimes, boys do cry. And when he does, Mama will help dry his tears.