Parenting
Embracing My Spirited Little Adventurer by Emma Lawson
Updated: Aug. 25, 2016
Originally Published: Aug. 25, 2016
My youngest son, Leo, is undeniably a spirited child. To put it nicely, one could say he is wild—wild in every sense of the word, as defined by the dictionary:
wild: wīld / adjective
- (of an animal or plant) living or growing in the natural environment; not domesticated or cultivated.
- uncontrolled or unrestrained, especially in the pursuit of pleasure.
Leo exemplifies these definitions: he is often uncontrolled, unrestrained, and uncultivated. And for reasons related to his vibrant nature, I find myself perpetually exhausted.
Leo’s “natural habitat” was right in the midst of my first marriage’s decline. He arrived as the final child to two weary parents who were desperately trying to hold onto the remnants of a family while our world was unraveling. Leo would often roam about in our bed, nestled between my ex-husband and me. I welcomed him there, partly because he was my last baby—the smallest, the final child. His presence between us created a comforting distance between his father and me.
As a result, Leo became accustomed to being in close proximity to me, nursing on demand like a lion cub, seeking comfort at any given moment. Over time, I began to observe certain traits.
I noticed that he seemed perpetually unsatisfied, his tiny fists clenched tighter than his older siblings’ had been when they were infants. The noises he made while eating were primal, almost desperate. There was rarely an end to his appetite; he never appeared satisfied. He constantly craved to be held and fed. While I yearned to allow him the chance to self-soothe and learn to find his own comfort, I was fatigued. Balancing other children and a crumbling marriage left me with little energy. Sometimes, it was simply easier to pick up my wild little one and calm him down just to quell the noise and find a moment of peace.
I soon found myself blaming my choices for his wildness—thinking that it had been easier to feed him rather than let him find his own way to calm down, that I had held on too tightly for all the reasons mothers do with their last child: the grief of endings and the joy of savoring moments. Instead of addressing the complexities of my situation, we lay in the stillness of the night, bound by the child we created together, sweating and sleeping between us.
Eventually, that marriage ended. As the years rolled by, Leo’s wildness only amplified.
He grew into a handsome, strong, sweet, and kind boy who cherished his family and the world around him. However, he struggled to grasp concepts like “gentle,” “mild,” or “moderation.”
His rambunctiousness became a constant presence in my life, as I found myself repeating the same phrases like a stuck record. “You can’t jump on the couch.” “You need to sit when you eat.” “Shut the door! Shut the door!” “Where are your shoes?” “Why are your socks soaked?” The list went on, and on, and on, until my voice grew hoarse, my furniture showed signs of wear, and my mind ached.
Initially, I thought Leo’s wildness was confined to our small home—our house, yard, and the little cul-de-sac where he and his siblings would ride their hand-me-down bikes. Then he started school, and I began receiving notes from his teachers.
“He is very kind. He just finds it hard to sit still today.” Later that week: “Leo is such a sweet boy. He does struggle with keeping his hands to himself at times.” Looking up from the second note, I could see Leo, that sweet boy, devouring his fourth string cheese stick and rolling around on the floor like a playful otter.
“Oh, Leo,” I sighed, burying my face in his sticky neck. “You have to stay in your seat at school. You can’t touch everything or everyone. Remember, look with your eyes, not your hands.” He wrapped his arms around me, whispering softly, “I will. I know. I try.” Then, as he climbed into my lap, now too small for him, he added, “There are so many rules to remember.”
Sometimes, convincing him to head to school was an uphill battle. One morning, as we waited for the bus, he asked, “What do you do all day, Mama? I wonder about you.” His curiosity began to alarm me. I feared I might turn around one day to find him in the kitchen, having escaped school like a clever monkey breaking free from its enclosure. Each day that passed without incident was a sigh of relief.
Worry, relief, worry, relief—such is the cycle of love in the wild.
At bedtime, Leo always requested that I tuck him in last. After saying goodnight to his brothers, I’d crawl into his twin bed. The space was cramped, filled with an assortment of beloved items: 11 stuffed animals, completed sticker books, an art project from school, a blanket gifted by his sister, and a box of Legos. Wedge in beside him, I felt the familiar comfort of his body against mine, perhaps falling asleep to the rhythm of his breathing.
As time went on, my spirited child began to grow and transition out of my bed and into his own sanctuary. While I’ve tried to tame his wildness, there is merit in fitting in and finding a place of belonging. Isn’t that the role of a mother—to guide her child towards conformity, to help even the wildest of spirits learn to settle down among the rest of us?
Yet here’s the unspoken truth: I admire his freedom. His wildness makes him open to the world, allowing him to love fiercely, like a creature that has leapt from high places only to rise again after falling. He finds solace in familiar scents and appears unfazed as he dances to a different rhythm.
He is still small, with plenty of time ahead of us. Although it is challenging and exhausting, we are navigating this journey together.
There remains time to either curb the wildness within him or let him explore it a bit longer before it fades away for good.
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In summary, raising a spirited child like Leo can be both exhausting and rewarding. As parents, we must balance nurturing their wildness while guiding them toward finding their place in the world.