It’s funny how many ways I’ve tried to sell it.
“She takes some time to warm up.”
“She can be a little bashful around new people.”
“She doesn’t talk that much yet.”
“She’s a tough nut to crack.”
“She can be a bit serious.”
“She likes to just take it all in.”
I’ve tried the soft sell, the hard sell, and the funny sell. I explain it apologetically, confidentially, and offhandedly. I try to bolster her confidence, ignore it, and teach her how to get past it. But the thing is this:
The Buddha is shy.
Really shy.
Really, really shy.
She doesn’t want to talk to you. Or smile at you. Or be touched by you. In fact, she’d really just prefer to stare at you unblinkingly with a high level of disdain. With so much disdain, and with such a flinty stare, that I honestly have no fear at all about this girl’s future dating experiences. She’ll tell those boys where to go, oh yes she will. If she even needs to tell them anything after giving them that look.
She’s been in the Toddler Room at daycare for four months now. And she seems fine and comfortable there. But she didn’t smile at a teacher until a month ago. She just started using a word here or there with them last week. Last week!
At home, of course, she’s a chatterbox brimming with confidence. At the playground, she runs around and climbs structures so high that I can’t reach her and then from above she watches me panic and giggles. When it’s just us, she’s funny and goofy and full-speed ahead. She hugs and kisses and invents new games. As soon as someone else enters the picture…BAM. Lock down. No words. No playing. Flinty stare of death. My flimsy explanations.
I’d be lying if I said it didn’t bother me. Of course it bothers me. Look at this whole post: paragraphs of overwrought explanation teetering over the hidden framework of me being bothered by it. I’m jealous of friends with their jolly toddlers, the ones who light up parties and make everyone laugh. I get cranky about the kids at daycare who joyfully call out the Buddha’s name when she walks in, only to get her blank stare in return. I worry when these kids, nice normal kids, not overly aggressive ones, take her toys and ignore her during games. Why wouldn’t they? She’s not going to do anything but stand there.
I remember being shy as a child, but I didn’t know this is what it looked like from the outside. I remember watching everyone in the room, taking note of their interaction, waiting to figure out all the roles and rules before jumping in. I remember people thinking I was dumb because I couldn’t think of the right words to say, so I just didn’t say any. I remember overly loud adults getting in my face in an effort to make me crack a smile and I remember hiding behind my mother’s leg exactly–EXACTLY–as the Buddha now does to me. And I remember my mother’s hand on my back, gently and lovingly moving me out into the line of fire exactly–EXACTLY–as I now do to her. So it’s not that I don’t get it. I get it. I get it a little too much.
But I didn’t know what my mother was feeling over on this side of the fence. That she was probably afraid that I would get bullied, that I would always be on the outside, that I would forever be considered slow because I didn’t show I could keep up, even when she knew I was ahead of the pack. And that deep down, she was probably a little embarrassed by me and my total lack of social niceties. This side of the fence sucks.
I know the Buddha will be okay, because I am okay. I know she will, eventually, learn some social skills and figure out how to join in. I know that she will learn to appreciate that people-watching practice because it will give her hidden advantages galore in school, dating, and work. I know she will someday figure out that the best way to overcome shyness is to find the person in the room who is feeling even more shy, and go talk to them. I know she’ll learn that confidence can be faked and that, if you do it right, few people can tell the difference. I’ll teach her some of these tricks, some she’ll figure out on her own, and she’ll find her own ways of compensating.
At the Buddha’s daycare, there’s a little boy with some serious developmental delays. He didn’t crawl until two. At almost three years old, he still can’t walk unassisted. The daycare is tremendous with him, working closely with his parents to find that right balance between pushing and accommodating. He and the Buddha have been in the same room since she started there, despite his being almost a year older. The Buddha has always liked him, probably because his physical problems slow him down to a pace she can understand. Recently the classroom teacher told me that the Buddha watches him throughout the day. No matter what else she’s doing, she’s got one eye on this guy. Because walking is such an effort for him, he spends a lot of time sitting on the floor and playing. And he always has something to play with, because the Buddha brings him toys. And books. And games. And snacks. She circles the room on her own toddler business, then will zoom in periodically to bring him a new present to keep him busy. She’s taken him on as her own personal mission, unasked, unexpected, untaught.
And so, yeah, I worry. I worry a lot.
And then there are times when I don’t worry at all.
The Buddha with her party face on.
