(Good) Grief

Bryson spent the last week transitioning from the "younger toddler" classroom (16-24 months) to the "older toddler" classroom (24-33 months) at his daycare. It has been somewhat rough going, reminiscent of his first week at this daycare. According to his teachers, he breaks down a little bit at transition times and has been carrying around his nap blanket for extra support. They requested that we bring shirt and lion back in, because he was tripping over his blanket every three steps. Probably not helping the transition is the fact that this week, the kids have been playing outside in their full winter get-ups - coats, snow pants, boots, mittens, hats - for the first time. Bry is a fan of snow in the abstract, in that he likes to see it out the window, while he stays warm inside. He's not so much a fan of snow in the stepping in it in his boots sense. Steve played up the joys of walking in the snow to Bry after the first dusting of the season, "When you walk in the snow, your feet go crunch, crunch, crunch!" Bryson agreed, before having set foot outside, that this indeed sounded like a good time. However, when it came time to hustle him out the door to school on the first morning that it had snowed (maybe a half of an inch), Bryson's opinion of snow quickly turned to distaste. He took one step into the snow and declared, "Mama hold you! Bry not go crunch, crunch, crunch!" Per his teachers, Bry has taken the slow route to warming up to the idea of playing outside in the snow (which has still yet to accumulate appreciably on the ground - I'm not sure what's going to happen when all of the school's outdoor toys get buried under a mound of the cold, cold precipitation).

Snow and cold notwithstanding, Bry seems a little beside himself in the older toddler classroom, where the majority of the kids are bigger, louder, and more articulate. A few weeks ago, Bry's teachers informed us that they had been working with him around assertiveness, because when other kids took toys away from Bry, he mostly just stood rooted to the ground, I'm guessing with a faraway, overwhelmed look on his face. His teachers coached him to say, "mine" or "stop." I gathered that the lessons were taking root when I absentmindedly took a fork out of his hand one day to cut up the meat on his plate and he said, "Mama not take Bry's fork!"

Last week, Bry's teachers told us that they were continuing to work with him around saying "stop," and added that the new challenge was to get Bry to stop saying "yes" when he really means "no." Amusingly, his teacher characterized him as "an agreeable guy," to which I responded (internally), "Are you sure we're talking about the same kid? 'Cause agreeable is not so much the first adjective that comes to mind to describe Bry's recent approach to parental requests. Obstinate seems a better fit."

***

Bry will officially be an "older toddler" come Monday. Steve and I talked it up all last week, while acknowledging that it was okay to feel scared or sad at the same time. Over the course of the week, we got feedback that, although shaky, Bry was becoming more accustomed to the new routine. But this evening, I had a heartbreaking conversation with Bry just before bedtime. We were doing our usual dream/story routine in the rocking chair, and I was replaying the excitement of Bry having successfully used his potty for the first time, and for its intended purpose, just a few moments earlier (a story for another day, perhaps - or perhaps not, because, I'm not sure I need to blog Bry's life in quite that level of detail). We talked about underwear and all of the exciting motifs with which it might be emblazoned (Bry requested tow trucks), and then moved on to how some older toddlers wear underwear and some wear diapers and so on and so forth. Bry grew quiet, and then said, "Bry needs a diaper." This was the first sign that Bry was feeling overwhelmed by the whole older toddler thing.

Sign number two was when I asked Bry what the best part of today was for him. Steve and I have started having the best part/worst part of the day conversation at dinner, and sometimes it comes up at bedtime too. We've been explaining that "worst part" means something that you don't like. When I asked tonight about the best part of Bry's day, he again grew quiet, and then said, "Something you don't like." Our conversations are not always so linear. I asked, "What's something you don't like?" Pause. "Going to older toddlers." My heart hurt as I asked him what he didn't like about going to older toddlers. When he didn't say anything, I suggested that it might be something about the bigger kids, or the teachers, or the room. He answered something like, "Big kids touching you." I took this to mean that Bry felt jostled around, or just overwhelmed by the imposing physical presence of kids who are a head taller than him. Cuddling him in the rocking chair, I wanted to float the possibility that maybe I could just hold him from here on out, sure it might get difficult as he got into high school, but I'm sure I could build up my strength over time. Instead, I told him that I could see how it would be scary to be touched by bigger kids and reminded him that he could always say stop or ask a teacher for help.

The final kicker came when I asked Bry if there was anything about younger toddlers that he missed. Long pause. "Your teachers. Bry likes teachers." I was ready to dissolve into tears at that point. I can only imagine the grief that Bry must be feeling at having to face yet another change in his life and routine. I asked if he would also miss some of his younger toddler friends. "Yes. Stuart." We decided jointly that we would ask Stuart, Aditya, and Kaden (Bry's choices) to come over and play some time.

I tried to reassure Bry as best as I could that things will get easier, whatever he feels is okay, and that mama and daddy will do everything we can to make it better. What I didn't say was that we feel these losses too. And that, in a way, this is a good kind of grief, because it's grief that comes with the celebration of moving forward. But of course, you can't move forward without leaving something else behind, and I don't have the first clue how to explain to Bryson that he is, in fact, constantly moving forward, despite how scared or sad he might feel. Steve and I are continually learning too, I guess. About how to balance excitement about the future with compassion for the challenges involved. About what Bry needs most during transitions. About how to be his parents, I guess. Damned if it isn't the hardest learning I've ever done.

We're looking out for you, Bry. Promise.