Ich will Mama!
Tantrums and epiphanies.
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Though I have been au pairing with my host family for almost four months, until recently, I had yet to tackle one task in particular: putting the kids to bed by myself. We spend plenty of time one-on-one (the older the child, the easier this is), but Mama or Papa are usually close by in case I am spontaneously classified as an enemy. The parents have been preparing me aptly and kindly, walking me through the night-time routine. I accompanied the parents as they put the kids to bed, I managed once or twice with their oversight, but earlier this week I faced the real deal. This is not a drill! I approached the assignment with cautious optimism; all of our dry runs had gone smoothly. The boys (seven and five years old) are relatively easy. The girl (two years old) presents the real challenge. Challenge being: I’m not Mama. An hour and a half after the parents had left for their evening out, she had not yet tired of crying. Nothing I did, no book, no trick, no shred of comfort I could offer her was effective. Eventually, she succumbed to the gravity of sleep as I held her and swayed back and forth in the darkened kitchen. Sleep, I feel, comes for us all sooner or later, and the fact that she fell asleep has little to do with me or anything I did. She was stoically determined to stay awake and demand the comfort of her mother. Nothing, as far as she was concerned, could offer her similar peace. There was no other solution, no compromise to be made. Mama or nothing. She longed for her mother until she fell, unwillingly, into unconsciousness.
At first, when her parents had just left, she was crying but still coherent. She asked me to take her to her room rather than stay with her brothers, who had snuggled nicely into their parents’s bed. There we read one or two books (perhaps vaguely paged through is more accurate) before we turned off the light to try and encourage fatigue to overtake her. This is the usual routine that she performs with her mom or her dad every night. In the absence of her parents, she wisely sought the relief of familiarity: her bed, her books. Upon her request, I even squeezed my six-foot-something frame into her bed so that I could sit beside her like her mother does. All of this was done in pursuit of self-soothing, seeking peace in a moment of turmoil. When the room was plunged into darkness, the facade cracked and gave way. Yes, we had copied the routine and completed each step in the recipe just so, but try as we both might, something was different. She could not help but acknowledge that I was not a parent, I was new and different and altogether overwhelming. That’s when the crying began in earnest. Face to the floor, bottom in the air, arms beside her in a mock child’s pose (appropriately named, apparently), she wailed in longing. She had given it a shot: this new thing that was me putting her to bed. Ultimately, the newness was just too much for her and, too afraid to go on, she pined for the safety of her mom.
I wrote part of this journal on the tram, and in between dropping some film off at my new favourite film lab and hopping back on the train to return home, I popped into a little independent bookshop. I didn’t need anything, except perhaps to breathe in the perfumed air. Whether it’s the scent of ink on paper or the many predictable nooks and crannies filled with unpredictable bric-a-brac, or the handwritten notes recommending books I’ve never heard of, I always find small bookshops to be a sort of haven. I remember when I was in the States and the cars drove on the wrong side of the road and I didn’t know where I was going or how to get there and I was unsure of how to do my job or where my life was going or what my future held, I could duck into a tiny bookstore and find rest amidst the quiet shelves. There, I could counter the discomfort I felt being plunged into a new city with the relief of the recognisable font on the spine of the new John Green novel.
Somewhere between the sixth and the seventh Peppa Pig story that I read aloud to the crying, babbling toddler sat beside me, I started to see similarities between her behaviour and mine. I know what it’s like to be faced with the darkness of a new and fearful experience. As a grown man, I have also longed for home amid unknown places—unknown people, even. It’s probably a great instinct to have as a child: if something goes wrong, if you’re scared or worried, run away and find a parent (or a parental or trusted figure). I reflected, as the little two-year-old cried and cried, on how well I’ve graduated from that frame of mind. Part of becoming an adult, a part I have fought against, is facing the darkened room and pressing in. The greatest personal, academic, professional, social, physical and emotional growth I have experienced waited for me beyond the perimeter of my comfort. I have had to unlearn (slowly and without grace) that very same behaviour that I sometimes long to return to: crying and wishing for someone to come and rescue me from something new and scary. I’ve figured out how to rest on islands in the ocean of newness. Bookshops have often helped me to settle myself, the way Peppa Pig calms the little girl I au pair, before I put on a brave face and returned to a strange city or a tough spot in my relationships or a bout of hopelessness. I think I still struggle to convince myself that everything will be fine when my everyday begins to feel frighteningly new. I quickly sense the panic growing within me and the rising instinct to cling to what I know. I have to continually remind myself that many of the most valuable aspects of my life—my relationship, my new hometown, my education, this journal—are only a reality because I was courageous enough to leave my comfort zone. Just imagine what’s next…
I am slowly and quite inexplicably becoming a Peppa Pig fan. If you enjoyed this journal, please send it to someone you love.
I can hear your voice so clearly through your writing Jem! And I have to giggle 🤠it’s become my favourite ‘snack’ to go with my Saturday morning tea.