The Tower of Babble
Photo by La-Rel Easter on Unsplash
August 2023
Bearing witness to frustration is frustrating. Taishan is so freely expressed that any disturbance in his field is met with an emotional tsunami that washes over everyone and everything in his vicinity. Today, the Trojan horse that delivered fuel for his rage is his newly acquired set of magnet blocks. His Safta (grandma) recently gifted him these beautiful, handmade wooden blocks which contain invisible magnets. The ends of the blocks miraculously attach to each other to form any number of structures ranging from a race car to a giraffe. The branding and messaging on the box have also been crafted with intention, with assurances that the materials and labor have been thoughtfully and ethically sourced. My attention is most drawn to the suggested age range of 1-99.
First, I think of my Nono Frank who lived long enough to see the world through 100 year old eyes for 2 weeks. Would he have felt disappointed in his last two weeks of life if he was no longer considered capable of playing with Taishan’s magnet blocks? My second thought; how can this toy possibly be appropriate for a one year old? I am watching Taishan struggle to attach the pieces and meltdown every time his creation comes crumbling to the ground, as if his emotional state is enmeshed in these inanimate objects. Not intervening is enormously challenging. Every time he fails to aim the magnets in the right direction, they repel each other, destroying his heartfelt attempts to build the eiffel tower. His frustration rapidly accelerates from a nagging whine to an explosive scream. Each time his tower falls, he erupts into a tantrum, throwing blocks across the room. I do my best to stay patient and present and not intervene without him first asking for support. It’s painful to watch.
After several rounds of witnessing him manage to get one block to stand up, only to have it repelled back to the ground by another piece that he is attempting to attach from the wrong side, I am no longer able to passively observe. His blocks crash to the ground, and he throws himself into my lap.
“Why it no work? Why ada, why?”
He is overflowing with desperation as if he is asking me why world leaders haven’t taken any tangible action to address climate change.
“I don’t know. It seems really frustrating. This doesn't look like it's very fun for you.”
Then the sentence I instantly regret. “Maybe we should throw it in the garbage?”
He erupts into hysterical crying.
“No, ada! No. toe. in. da. garbid. sata. be. ainghee.” (No throw it in the garbage, safta will be angry). He manages to whimper, while gasping for oxygen in between each syllable.
I’m immediately overcome by a wave of shame. Why would I make such an irresponsible suggestion? That was idiotic. Of course that would only serve to upset him further. My feeling of shame shifts to pride and amazement as I process what has just taken place. In the middle of a meltdown, my son has made an accurate speculation about how another person might feel based on my proposed action.
I tell him, “You're right. Safta would probably feel angry. That was a bad idea. I'm sorry I said that. I am proud of you for being so good at saying how you feel and that you’re thinking about how other people might feel.”
It feels like a breakthrough moment, but as soon as the meltdown is over, I'm already plotting where I am going to hide these block magnets so they don't continue to create distress in our home. Of course, this task slips my mind and they remain visible on our living room floor.
The next day, we’re back in the same scenario. Taishan is engrossed in his block magnets, and I sit in front of him dreading the frustration that is sure to rise within both of us. The predictable happens. Blocks fall. Taishan whines, disrupting my nervous system. I focus on my breath and do my best to remain an impartial observer, letting him fight his own battle until he asks for help.
As his degree of frustration and volume of complaint increase in concert, I repeat, “that looks frustrating. it's hard when you want them to stick together and they fall down.”
It becomes a mantra, and I attempt to lose myself in the sounds of the words to avoid the frustration that continues to arise in me. Then, something miraculous happens. He gets the blocks to stick together. Not just once, or twice, but three and four times in a row. Suddenly he is building a tower of block magnets by himself. He is gently biting the tip of his tongue, as if this subtle action is the secret to his newly enhanced hand-eye coordination. He is focused on his creation like a laser. He’s in the zone. I think to myself, this must be what Shakespeare looked like when he wrote Hamlet, or what Nas looked like when he recorded the album illmatic. I am briefly entranced by his newfound abilities, but I am soon dreading what will happen when this tower inevitably falls down.
Crash. The blocks go scrambling across the living room floor. I brace myself for impact, leaning back and squinting my eyes as if to protect myself from the blinding light that will be released with Taishan’s scream. It never comes.
“My towuh fah down, ada. I gonna make it again.” he casually states, as he crawls across the floor and collects the pieces.
Then, he returns to his seated position, focused, and ready to begin anew.
I am dumbfounded, as I behold this alien body snatcher who has taken over my son’s body. I watch in awe, as he stacks the pieces back on top of one another, reaches a height that seems acceptable to him, then steps back and claps his hands.
“I may da towuh again ada!”
“Yes, you did!” I say with a degree of enthusiasm that causes him to glance suspiciously at me as if I were the one whose body has been invaded by aliens.
“I am so proud of you! You got frustrated and you kept trying, and you figured out how to make the tower all by yourself.”
In recalling this story, The cynical part of my mind jumps in and quips, “It's just a block tower. You’ve become another one of those annoying parents who think everything their kids do is a work of creative genius.“
“Look, my kid pooped in his diaper, and it looks like the profile of a gorilla’s face.”
“Look at how my kid sat on that bench all by himself!”
My loving, compassionate self laughs at my inner cynic. Yes, that may be true, AND I am proud of my son, and I am proud of myself for how I showed up for him.
There are so many ways this story could have unfolded if I were not intentionally creating a secure attachment with my son. After the first meltdown, I could have gathered up all the magnet blocks and actually thrown them in the trash.
I could have said, “You clearly aren't ready for this toy!”
I could have screamed, “You are driving me crazy with your whining. Shut up and play with a stuffed animal.”
These reactions may or may not have created a lifelong trauma for my son, but they would have definitely interrupted his process of working through frustration and experiencing the joy of persevering through difficulty and finding success. I think of how these seemingly small moments all add up into the story my son will one day tell himself about who he is, and that every small moment matters enormously in shaping that narrative. I know I won't always get it right, and there are sure to be moments where I make a mistake and tarnish the story I hope he tells himself, but in this moment, I feel confident that most people ages 1-99 would approve of how I showed up.
~
For a musical interpretation of staying in the moment listen to ‘Present’ by clicking the image below .
“Closer to the source, than I have ever been
Learning with my hands, and it’s not pretend
I’m glad I’m in, a place where I can give,
My kids the opportunity to truly live.”