The room was dark; L and I were in the rocking chair, just moments before she went to bed. A time to calm down, this time of day often brings out stories about how L’s school day went.
L began telling me about the order they sit in during circle time. She’s in a new group, and most of the children in there are new friends, so there were lots of new names floating about. She hardly finished one name when she started another. Then a pause.
“And beside Alex…” her voice tapered off.
“Who’s beside Alex?”
“I don’t know.” We rocked for a few moments, then she amended it. “I don’t know her name.”
“Why don’t you ask her.”
“No,” said L in a quick, clipped voice: it’s how she’s shortened “I don’t know” for many months.
“You just have to introduce yourself. Walk up to her and say, ‘Hi. My name’s L. What’s your name?'” A few more rocks, then I suggested we practice.
Within a few moments, she began improvising — “What’s your name? My name’s L.” — and adding a handshake with, “Nice to meet you.”
The following night, I asked her how it went. “Did you meet that girl from your circle time?”
“No,” she replied, and then gave a meandering explanation that only a toddler could come up with. Still, we practiced again.
Beautifully recounted. To pick up on your child’s uncertainty, to offer a way, to hold your breath hoping that they implement it and then to wait… It happens even when they are twenty-eight. Or twenty-four (ages of my daughters).