The myth of the whimsical Child

And the discovery that I most definitely do not have one

A brief snapshot of when it looked like I had a whimsical child

Maybe it was listening to too much Vashti Bunyan while pregnant that did it. Her ethereal voice sang of bands of wayward children as if they were the sweetest, most delightful thing in the world. Or maybe it was the ads that started to appear on every app for beige and olive linen children's clothes - the boys wearing them standing by a creek, still clean, and looking so innocent, that led me to believe my boys would be the whimsical type.

A whimsical child that plays quietly and contentedly with their beautiful (and expensive) wooden toys. A whimsical child that is softly spoken and never wears anything in a bright primary colour.

When my oldest was around seven months I started taking him to Steiner Playgroup. It was held in the most beautiful old hall. Pastel silks lined the ceiling and child-size wooden furniture and handmade toys lined the walls. On arrival, mothers were handed cups of herbal tea by the wonderful facilitator who looked like she had climbed straight down from the faraway tree. It was a place that soothed my aesthetic-loving soul. We all sang blessings on the bread the children made together and coloured with beeswax crayons. The children were all dressed in muted tones. Linens and cotton and pure wool rompers. This is the kind of childhood I had imagined and I adhered to this dress code as much as my pile of hand-me-downs and kmart clothes would allow. This was NOT the place for a child who wanted to wear a Spiderman shirt.

At seven months Sonny was already an experienced crawler and did not seem to be like the other little ones who played delightfully at the stations and nooks. He crawled about pulling things off shelves and charged around trying to walk while holding tiny prams, not caring who he bumped into. At story time he did not stay sitting on my knee, and things came to a head when he reached up and pulled the strings on the teacher’s lyre harp so hard he snapped them. I could feel her tension as she tried to take deep breaths - this is not what the children here did! It became clear that my boisterous child, even at his young age, did not fit the ideal of the whimsical child that this playgroup seemed to attract.

But oh how I wanted him to. I loved his spark and found him endlessly entertaining, but I also find aesthetics incredibly soothing and part of me wanted my life to look like the Instagram feeds of the other mothers who seemed to have this kind of child, whose lives looked straight out of an advert for a $60 linen shirt. If their child always looked that clean and was that well dressed, surely their life must be easier. So I persevered.

As he got older I made beautiful wool and cotton dolls for him to play with, felt fairies and animals, partly for the love of crafting and partly because of what they seemed to represent in my head, a calm well-regulated child. He played with them for a short time but if there was any dirt or something bright and plastic around, you better believe he was straight onto that.

We read books about fairies and magical creatures and while he enjoyed them his eyes wandered constantly to the books about construction and big machines. As he grew, so did his passion for chaos. The cute outfits I had tried to curate seemed pointless now and on trips to the shops, I let him pick out the clothes he wanted (within reason). They were bright and had diggers on them. But even still, The whimsical idea persisted. 

It niggled at me as I watched reels and stories of whimsical children making dreamy observations of one wise beyond their years. I scrolled through pictures of young boys dressed in more expensive clothes than mine carrying woven baskets (yes I bought one and yes my boys never used it) to collect treasures on their adventures in the woods.

Viewing these things made me long for a different life. A life that was prettier, glossier, easier because my dreamy boys would be easier.

Yes, there were occasions when my boys had some whimsy. When Sonny said things like “Sylver’s curls look like a hurricane” or made fairy gardens. But the fairy gardens also had diggers in them. I looked on with excitement as Sylver told me he had drawn a moon, but then added that it had a poo on it. And now I can only sigh as Sonny says things like “Dada can you smell my farts over the phone?”

Reading a post by 

Kylie-Ann

 where she mused whether or not her boy was a psychopath for crushing a worm, made me laugh. Are not the whimsical boys we are meant to be raising spending time in nature, digging quietly for worms and upon finding them handling them with utmost care while studying them with a wooden-rimmed magnifying glass and placing them gently back on the soil? Well, mine are studying beetles by squashing squeezing and pulling them apart. Not, I believe, in a desire to hurt or cause pain but more because they are young and just want to see what happens.

Now as a mother of two boys, I realised the picture I was holding onto was not actually wanting my kids to be any different than they are (well it would be nice if they slept a bit more) but it was about having control of my life looking a certain way. It’s the same feeling as when I have a wardrobe full of complementary colours grouped together in shades. It soothes me. And when you live in chaos, you need a little soothing idealism.

But what I was being sold was an idea of a child that does not truly exist. These pictures, in magazines, in ads or on Instagram were just that - pictures.

They showed a glimpse, an incredibly staged snapshot which while beautiful to gaze upon was definitely not my reality. And the more I looked the more pointless it all seemed and I thought ‘Do I really want to spend my time and money and energy on this façade?

As my kids have grown it has become so much easier to accept my boys are boys. My children are children. Messy and loud and naughty and wild. But not wild in the sweet kind of way. Not wild in the ‘my child loves nature, he is so wild’ No, I mean wild in the way that they walk around with no shoes or shirts on most of the time. Finding sticks to use as weapons, hurling rocks and shells at each other and assuring me that it’s fine because the rocks are canon balls, like that somehow makes it better? Wild in the way that they talk back and argue with us. When we gently ask them to pack up they say NO with vigor. Their clothes are stained with dirt and paint and they talk about poo nonstop. They are not 2d images on a page or a snapshot in time, they are themselves. Wildly unpredictable, very hard work and utterly adorable.

How my boys look 90% of the time

I still have not-so-secret dreams of my boys wearing plain, beautifully made clothes in earthy tones and I cringe when my son tells me he’s made a jail for the baddy guys and a place to chop their heads off. But to try and put my ideals onto my children, to try and mould and shape them against their nature is fighting a losing battle that would only be damaging to them. So now when I see those ads I laugh at the ridiculousness of it all and gaze lovingly at my feral boys, farts and all.

Do you have a naturally whimsical child? Or have you struggled with the idea that your children should act/look a certain way? I’d love to discuss in the comments.

*It should be noted that while writing this I had to take a crayon off my 2-year-old who was drawing “stinky poos” on the floor. 10 minutes later he also came in to show me a “baby beatle” he was slowly crushing to death.