26 years later...and I'm still 2 years old.

Considering I don't have any two year old children or teach two year old children I spend a significant amount of time with two year old children. My niece Madeline is two, my god-daughter Adeline is two, and my primary friend here in Istanbul is the mother of a son named Shiloh, who happens to also be two. Lately, I am thinking maybe I too am two. See two year olds are in this interesting developmental dilemma, they are beginning to see beyond themselves, beyond their own needs, beyond their own wants. This is not to imply that one year olds are selfish, self serving and self obsessed little beings, but in truth for evolutionary purposes they are, they need to be. At two, though children are generally beginning to recognize that they are a person, as in they are one of many people, and each person has needs. And at 28 I am beginning to wonder if its a joke that adults are actually expected to have learned this lesson well, or at least somewhat...or really to have learned any of the lessons we expect two year olds to master. Maybe we've got the pooping our pants one down--but I've seen grown adults miss that step more than once in my life, so who knows...

Shiloh has begun to point at his own chest with his own hand to communicate that he wants a turn to blow the bubbles, that he wants to taste the chicken, that he wants. The fact that he wants is not new, the idea that he must communicate to other children and adults that he also wants is what I find striking. This little pointing gesture with his tiny little pointing finger also happens to be incredibly cute and therefore compelling to watch. Sometimes it works for Shiloh and he can get his turn to blow the bubbles, sometimes it doesn't because its time to leave the park and not blow bubbles. It's about agency, control over our lives and our choices.

But its also about finding agency in a world in which we are not the only agents. And beyond this dilemma of too many people who have too many needs that often have no acceptable resolutions, we also have to find ways to both communicate our needs so that others may understand them and negotiate our needs so that we may move past these moments of discord. But still I get stuck in these beginning parts, at the age of two: what does it mean to understand myself in relation to others, what does it mean to understand someone else's needs while still advocating for my own, does anyone ever actually learn how to do this successfully, or at least how to not do it gracefully?

As someone nearing thirty, as someone who considers herself empathetic, empathic, communicative and committed to understanding such quandaries as individual versus collective needs, both on an abstract philosophical level and on the concrete personal level of my lived life, I am not sure I have made much more progress answering this question than Shiloh. I too am sticking my half-bent finger towards my stuck out chest and tapping, while I earnestly look up at the faces of those who surround me. People often get frustrated with

children and their limited modes of communication, but do adults really have better ones? If you look at the amount of discord in the world, the number of large scale wars and scandals, the vast quantity of people legally or illegally imprisoned by other people, it seems to me like adults know about as much as they don't know about how to co exist. If I listen to my own work related problems about misinterpretations, misunderstandings, mismatching of my needs and wants with other peoples, if I listen to my own relationship problems from the small scale of what we should eat tonight to the larger scale of do we know how to support each other, if I listen to any of my friends talk about any of their lives, I think its safe to say we're all still learning the same lessons we were working on at the age of two. So, either we didn't learn those lessons so well, we were taught the wrong lessons, or we've all been deluded to believe that the lessons were learnable. Lately, I'm thinking the latter.

Last year I attended a presentation by a woman named Tricia who works with two year olds, entitled "Learning from Two Year Olds." She described a two year old as someone grappling with power, understanding actions and reactions, and asserting individuality. She said they are passionate, curious and full of wonder, as most of the world is new and exciting and huge. The flip side of this combo is that two year olds are often frightened and overwhelmed by the amount of unknown out there. They are in the unique developmental place of recognizing for the first time that they are separate beings, amongst other beings, within a very large world. Tricia then explained that as a teacher supporting two year olds through this time in their lives she aims to provide a classroom rooted in consistency and sameness. Weird, right? But if the children have a frame they can count on, if they can know the schedule of the day and the activities available, then they may feel safe to investigate all the rest. Each day Tricia will vary some element, like the colors of the paint available, or the book that she'll read or the song that they'll sing, but the overall structure will stay the same. Tricia imposes a structure to allow her students freedom.

Beyond this conundrum of routine enabling exploration, I was delightfully perplexed by her solution to the problem of sharing; which is namely that two year olds don't do it. See two year olds are just beginning to get that sense of will, that they can make things happen, they can act. And as all of us who have lived more than two years in this world know, whenever we act, somebody or something reacts. Tricia quoted John Muir, "When one tugs at a single thing in nature, he finds it attached to the rest of the world." So, the two year old tugs on a toy and finds its connected to another two year old--what to do? For the most part Tricia keeps doubles of all the toys in her classroom. But for those occasions when a duplicate just won't cut it, Tricia will turn to the child who grabbed the toy and say, "I see you really need that toy right now, but when you're done can you give it back to little Johnny?" And to little Johnny, whose toy has just been grabbed she will say, "I see that that was really upsetting, next time hold on tighter."

Many would say that this strategy is both harsh and an abdication of the adult's responsibility to absolve the situation. Sure, a two year old doesn't have the language or life experience to negotiate those moments, but isn't that why an adult teacher is in the room with them? to resolve those situations for them? to model how to do so in front of them? to punish the one who grabs and console the one who has lost? wouldn't that be more just? more loving? And I can understand all of these perspectives, but I must admit that there is some genius to Tricia's seeming harshness. Tricia also quoted one of my favorite poets, Maya Angelou, to make her point clearer, "I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but they will never forget how you made them feel." A two year old is not helpless, nor should he be made to feel helpless--on his own he can hold on tighter. From a professional perspective Tricia is teaching volumes in these little interactions: how to name and understand feelings, the idea of another and his or needs, how to advocate for one's own needs, how to verbalize these needs, and more fundamentally how to use what you've got to deal with where you're at.

The other night Shiloh was exhausted and wanted to go to bed. He asked to go to bed. And yet when his parents took him to bed he cried. I asked his mother, who not only happens to be an incredibly smart and insightful woman but also a psychologist, thereby making her opinions seem more licensed, "Why do children cry when they go to bed?" After a moment's composition she told me many people believe that when children are older they cry because of fears--fear of being alone, in the dark, fear of nightmares. But when children are younger, around Shiloh's age, some people believe children cry as an act of release, because they don't yet know how to process the emotions associated with all of their experiences throughout the day. Whether it be a good day or a hard day, all that energy of living and feeling needs to come out before a child can fall asleep, so they cry.

I don't cry when I go to bed each night. I, at least, have developed to a point where I no longer need a daily release. I am not that emotionally constipated. But last night when I spoke t

o my mother on the phone for the first time in about a week, it occurred to me that her voice is my "going to bed." The past week I have been on vacation and it has been really really hard--a sentence that makes me roll my own eyes at myself. But I got a stomach virus after recovering from a bad cold and spent most of the time either puking or wishing I could puke, because no matter how violent those few minutes of vomiting may be, I always feel better after. Now I know that being sick means feeling vulnerable and life is more difficult when you're vulnerable. But beyond that, this vacation was following an incredibly stressful month of both personal and professional adjustments to living in a new country, working at a new school, and awkwardly uncovering the cultures of both. So I had looked forward to this holiday with great anticipation of rest, relaxation and an opportunity to return recharged and ready to conquer the difficulties of my culture clash. But being sick meant that I could not go on the holiday I had planned, nor direct my energy towards preparing for my return to work. I not only felt vulnerable, but I also felt weaker and more confused than I had before my vacation had started.

My mother called. We spoke for maybe 7 minutes. Nothing major was said. But when we hung up, I broke down. I cried for nearly an hour till I was raw and empty. Occasionally, when I cry I need to reiterate a thought or a statement in order to maintain the momentum of my tears, like, "I can't do this," or "why me?" But this time I needed no sentiment to guide my release, the tears had their own agenda. My role was simply to bear witness. Twenty six years later, and I still don't know how to be the agent of processing my own experiences and emotions. Twenty six years later and I wish that my mommy was still putting me to bed so I could have that daily release of a two year old. And I really wonder if the most important lesson, the most pervasive lesson, the one it all comes down to, is whether or not I know how to use

what I've got to deal with where I'm at...to hold on tighter, or to know when to let go. Because if I had learned Tricia's lesson when I was two, would I still need my mommy to help me release all the rest...or is my misconception that there will ever be a time when I won't need my mommy for release? maybe the problem is more that we see ourselves, adults, as so different from children. Maybe I need to let go of the expectation that I am not two. Except the pooping the pants part, I'm gonna hold true to not doing that...