the gradations of childhood

It’s only when I am holding Isa’s hand and walking beside her that I realize how small she is; I have to will my legs to shorten their stride enough to match hers. Most of the time, she seems less like a toddler and more like a full-fledged girl. She talks constantly; she sings songs learned at school; she does my hair; she plays games; she informs her younger siblings when they are doing something against the rules; she “reads,” which entails narrating aloud the images in story books that she cannot actually yet read—because she has, in fact, only recently turned three. She seems so fully grown because of the constant contrast with Lidia, who is almost two, and Raul, who is seven months. Lidia is part baby and part toddler, speaking single words occasionally but using her face, hands, and body to relay much more information about what she wants and feels than she can let be known with her voice. Lidia is still small enough to be carried easily; yet she feeds herself, puts herself in bed for naps, climbs into her stroller and takes a seat before walks. Raul can do none of these things for himself; the most he can do on his own is roll over, swallow, and sing songs no one understands.

That Isa can put her own shoes on, put her dishes in the sink and her trash in the trash can, pull on her own pants and snap the button; that she can laugh at jokes and play-act dramatically and ask questions and learn innumerable new words in two languages and immediately begin to use them—that she can do all these things makes her seem immensely mature in comparison to the littler ones; so it is easy to forget that at heart she is still a tiny little thing—still very tender emotionally, still very reliant on the big people in her life for everything she needs.

It took three or four days for Lidia to warm to me. Before that she sometimes smiled at me, but she wouldn’t let me hold her or often kiss her—she didn’t trust me; she didn’t know me. She had been a baby the last time I’d seen her. It took something as simple as me holding her in my arms and pretending to drop her; letting her swoosh upside down toward the floor and then catching her, over and over; later pushing her, suddenly, as high as my arms could take her—catching her by surprise, interacting not emotionally or mentally but physically with her, these were the ways to build a bond with her. Once she knew I’d thrill her with moves that would scare a timid child like Isa, Lidia and I were best friends, and she’d happily nestle into my lap for snuggling time too, happily outstretch her arms toward me and let me carry her. It was a moment of victory when I figured out how to initiate a relationship with her—and a moment of trauma for my first niece, who had already entrusted me to focus intently on her, and only on her. The day I befriended Lidia, Isa threw tantrums constantly. She refused a nap and stomped her feet at her parents and threw toys on the floor. She wailed before taking a shower.

She was being the tiny little girl that she is. With three siblings so close in age, the gradations of childhood make a strong contrast—make her seem older and more competent at handling things than perhaps she is.