In my teens I was very shy. Standing on the threshold of the “grown- up world,” many things seemed to present insuperable barriers to entry. Getting on a plane by myself, going to the doctor alone (never mind the dentist), cooking a roast dinner for friends – I couldn’t conceive of a time when I would feel comfortable accomplishing even such minor tasks.
I dubbed these terrifying activities “Brave Acts” and strove diligently – if slowly and painfully – to master them. Such was their number that over the years the phrase Brave Acts (always spoken capitalized) became embedded into our family’s vocabulary.
It wasn’t just me who suffered in this way. My brother Chris, sandwiched between two sisters and suffering from classic middle child syndrome, spray-painted his bedroom wallpaper with reinforcing, shiny silver messages: “The Amazing C Cooper,” “DON’T PANIC!” and other wise extracts from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.
And now I can see this family trait coming out in poor Elsa. The other night, long after I thought she’d fallen asleep, I heard a muffled bleating emanating from her room.
“What’s the matter, darling?” I enquired solicitously, poking my head around the door.
“Mummy, Mummy!” Elsa cried, “When I’m a grown-up, I won’t know how to cook!”
“But of course you will, sweetheart,” I responded. “I will teach you long before then.” Elsa looked unconvinced (smart girl) but did allow me to shut the door again.
Five minutes later …
“Mummy, Mummy! When I’m a grown-up, I won’t know when clients are coming.”
“Yes, you will. They will call you to make an appointment,” I reassure her, deciding it was beside the point to explain that many different career choices were open to her.
“But Mummy, I won’t know how to use the telephone.” And so it continued. My daughter has developed an acute phobia about all things adult.
How has this happened? I suppose I can blame the Cooper genes for some of it. But has my parenting style unwittingly added to Elsa’s anxieties? I say “parenting style” as if I’d given a lot of thought to it – perhaps the go-with-what-feels-right-at-the-time approach is not laid-back, but instead lazy and part of the problem.
And what about ayi? With my amateur psychology hat on, I’d guess that encouraging a child to develop a strong sense of independence and confidence in their abilities is key – but I hadn’t noticed ayi particularly babying Elsa. True, it’s a battle to get Elsa to dress herself every morning. Yes, the concept of tidying her room appears less than appealing: “It’s boring for me, Mummy.” And OK, ayi does try to sneak in the odd sweet/biscuit/lollipop/ice-cream for her little angel. But aren’t these trials just par for the course? Aren’t children supposed to treat you like some lowly servant put on this planet to instantly satisfy their every tiny, bizarre and unreasonable wish?
I guess I should chill out. After all, there are areas where Elsa seems supremely confident. She is certain that my favorite color is yellow (actually it’s not), that you drink cold water in summer and hot water in winter, that salmon turn orange when they die. And that Teddy is spelt “LOEIZHF.”
Moreover, it’s not like these childhood anxieties are permanently debilitating. These days, my brother’s bedroom walls bear not a trace of spray paint. And although my roast dinners leave a lot to be desired, and I can’t say I face the dentist with total equanimity, I have managed to get Elsa and myself on and off a large number of airplanes.
But just in case, perhaps I should start teaching Elsa how to make gravy.