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You know that typical view of childhood? Homework, mealtime negotiations, the occasional Lego crisis that feels like the end of the world. And tantrums. Oh, the tantrums. For years, I just chalked them up to the basics: hunger, tired or just in desperate need of a nap. What else could it be, right? Their world so gloriously simple, compared to our adult spreadsheet-of-a-life.
Turns out, I was hilarously naive. Their world, that tiny, seemingly contained universe, is actually a sprawling, intricate, emotionally charged metropolis. And our kids? They are navigating it with all the complexity and often, more raw emotion than we do our biggest work project.
Its not just the school curriculum; its the school politics. The whispered alliances, the shifting loyalties in friendship circles, the unspoken rules of the playground.
And then there are their own wonderfully specific insecurities. Like my son’s long-standing, utterly baffling aversion to wearing shorts. In Chennai, where shorts are basically a survival tool in the relentless heat, he’d insist on full pants and socks. Always. For months, I tried every tactic — bribery, logic, even the “everyone else is wearing shorts!” argument. Nothing worked. It became a daily, perplexing battle.
It took me ages, weeks of gentle probing, months of accidental discoveries, to uncover the reason: dry skin on his ankles. Teachers and friends had innocently called it out, perhaps wondering why he was scratching. To him, it wasn’t just dry skin; it was a discussion, a focus, an insecurity he hated. The discussions made him hate the shorts and stick to full pants. Thats it. My own shoulders slumped inquiet understanding. Just like my own insecurities about a presentation, or a bad hair day, or a misplaced word, his discomfort was valid. And deep. My heart felt a pang.
And sometimes, his inner world is so vivid, it blends beautifully with shared narratives. Years ago, I created this silly airplane story for him: he was the pilot, and I was his trusty (if slightly clueless) co-pilot. He’d rest in the back with the “crew,” because, you know, he is way more experienced and the boss. Every now and then, the co-pilot (me) would rush to him, reporting a huge, scary red cloud blocking our way. He’d sigh dramatically, rush to the cockpit, only to find a giant red apple instead of a cloud. He’d scold the co-pilot for “bad assessments,” then heroically pluck the apple right out of the sky, saving the day by feeding all the passengers and crew a delicious recipe made from it.
Now, years later, he remembers this story so vividly that he’s added his own flourishes. A green cloud means a giant watermelor. A yellow cloud? A lemon, of course. Each comes with its own new inventive recipe to save the flight. Its like his brain never stops spinning its own sequels, seamlessly blending our shared make-believe with his current imaginative bursts.
Witnessing these various facets of my son’s life — the intricate inner workings of his mind and the unique worlds he creates — has been its own kind of education for me. It’s a powerful reminder that children aren’t just learning our rules; they are busy writing their own adventures and forging their own unique connections. And maybe, just maybe, the best thing we can do as adults is to appreciate the richness of the epic they’re already creating, mostly unseen, right before our eyes.
-Ashmita, still navigating life’s adventures, and learning the complex politics of tiny ankles.
#ChildhoodMagic #ParentingHumor #KidsLogic #FamilyDynamics #LifeLessons #AshmitaWrites #InnerWorldOfKids #Imagination #ChildhoodDreams #ParentingTruths #KidsEmotions #Insecurities
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Salah Darwish On Unsplash
