I recently read a post over at the hysterical June Cleaver Nirvana blog on the subject of young children and the frazzled mothers who are tied to them with invisible umbilical chords. For several years after my children were born, I was confused or sleep deprived, or both. I thought when they let dads cut those chords in the hospital before you brought baby home, the fleshy ropes were permanently severed. But I've been wrong about so many things.
Thinking on the subject of mothers and that close physical proximity they have with their offspring until they reach teenagehood, I remembered clearly the suffocating feeling of having no private space of one's own. For a long time, I couldn't imagine there would come a day when my three little cling-ons would unvelcro themselves from me and actually function as autonomous beings. I mean, I called them "my precious hemorrhoids" for years, I hate to admit now.
Anyway, you can read here what got me thinking about all this. Be sure to note the helpful diagrams. June Cleaver Nirvana: An issue of space
In a domino effect of remembered events -- or maybe it's just more brain cells dying off -- a story about my youngest son came to mind. Court Jester (CJ) whom you read about yesterday involving an incident at nursery school [the same school in which he forged my cursive initials signature with a circle around ...except in red crayon...on his "D" conduct grade for the week, the first week in the big 4-year-old class] was the biggest space invader of my kids. But he didn't just contain his clingyness to Mom. It extended to perfect strangers sometimes too.
In an effort to train this bad habit out of CJ, I brought home a hula hoop one day and made him walk around with it for about an hour, holding it over his body with his arms down, akin to a gigantic hoop skirt. "The space inside the hula is your space, CJ," I patiently and hopefully explained. "And the space outside of the hoop belongs to other people. Understand?" He mumbled something I didn't quite understand, then ran off to play with his siblings in the backyard.
After loading the dishwasher, I looked out of the window, and there sat Queenie (his older sister) and Fresh Prince (CJ's older brother)...and yes, everyone in the house has a name with royal connotations except me, the Scullery Wench...sitting on the ground inside Court Jester's hula hoop. He'd told them Mom said they had to stay inside the circle, and all the space outside of it was his.
So much for parental instruction using innovative methods. Oh, how I wanted to incorporate a little "hands on" explanation at that moment.
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