“Oh, we were fine, thanks,” I say. “No problems.”
“Where’s the brake?” says Minnie suddenly, and beams at Erica. “Where’s the bloody brake in this bloody stupid car?”
My face flushes bright red. “Minnie!” I say sharply. “Stop that! Where on earth did you— Gosh, I’ve got no idea—”
“Idiot American dri-vers,” Minnie starts singing to “Twinkle, Twinkle” again. “Idiot American dri-vers …”
“Minnie!” I practically yell. “Stop! No singing!”
I want to die. I can see Erica hiding a smile, and a couple of assistants are looking over. Great.
“Minnie’s obviously a very receptive child,” says Erica politely.
Yes. Far too bloody receptive. I am never saying anything in front of Minnie, ever again.
“Absolutely.” I try to regain my cool. “Gosh, what a lovely sandpit. Go on, Minnie! Play with the sand!”
“Now, as I explained to you, we at Little Leaf follow a transitional separation program,” says Erica, watching as Minnie plunges her hands joyfully into the sandpit. “This is the start of Minnie’s great journey of independence as a human in this world. These are her first steps away from you. They need to be at her own pace.”
“Absolutely.” I’m slightly mesmerized by Erica. She sounds like she’s describing an epic trip round the world, not just a toddler going to playgroup.
“So I ask you, Rebecca, to stay by Minnie’s side this first morning. Shadow her. Reassure her. Identify the exciting new discoveries she’s making; see the world at her level. Minnie will be wary to begin with. Introduce her gradually to the concept of life away from Mommy. Watch her slowly blossom. You’ll be amazed by her progress!”
“Right. Fantastic.” I nod earnestly.
I can see another mother nearby, sitting with her blond curly-headed boy. The mother is pin-thin and dressed in several layers of T-shirts (I happen to know that each one of those T-shirts costs a hundred dollars, something that Mum would never understand in a million years), and she’s watching intently as the little boy daubs paint on a sheet of paper.
“Interesting colors, Isaac,” she’s saying seriously. “I like the world you’ve made.” As he smears paint on his face, she doesn’t flicker. “You’re expressing yourself on your own body,” she says. “You made that choice, Isaac. We can make choices.”
Blimey. They do take everything seriously here. But if I’m going to fit in, I’ll have to be like that too.
“I’ll be around if you need me.” Erica smiles. “Enjoy this first morning of simultaneous discovery!”
As she heads over to another child, I turn my phone off. I’m feeling quite inspired by Erica. I’m going to be totally focused on Minnie and her morning.
OK. Here’s the thing. It’s all very well, Erica saying, “Stay with Minnie.” I honestly want to. I want to be like a mother dolphin and its young, gliding along together in a beautiful duo, simultaneously discovering the world.
But the thing about mother dolphins is, they don’t have Legos to trip over, or playhouses to get in their way, or toddlers who can’t make up their mind which direction to go in. It took about three seconds for Minnie to get bored with the sandpit and rush outside to the yard to play on a trike. I’d just about got outside, stumbling over a box of blocks, when she changed her mind, dashed back in, and grabbed a dolly. Then she ran outside to hurl the dolly down the slide. She’s been in and out about ten times. I’m puffed out, just keeping up with her.
All the time, I’ve tried to keep up a stream of encouraging, reassuring chatter, but Minnie could not be less interested. All her anxiety from this morning seems to have disappeared, and when I tried to hug her tight just now, she wriggled away, exclaiming, “No hug, Mummy! Toys!”
“So, you’re discovering … er … gravity!” I say, as she drops a toy bear on the floor. “Brilliant, darling! Now are you going to express yourself through water?” Minnie has headed over to the water tray and is swishing it around with abandon. “You’ve made the choice to splash yourself … Argh!” I cry out as Minnie sloshes water into my face. “You’ve made the choice to get me wet too. Wow. That was an … interesting choice.”
Minnie isn’t even listening. She’s run over to the playhouse, which is quite adorable, like a little gingerbread cottage. Hastily, I follow her, almost tripping on the squidgy colorful alphabet matting.
“Now you’re in the house!” I say, racking my brains for something to say. “You’re discovering … er … windows. Shall I come in too?”
