“I gave it back to Anders,” I say. “It’s his car. We’ve got this lovely new one here.” I proudly point to my shiny blue runaround.
But Effie freezes. And then she crumples to the ground. Her hands flail, smashing against the rough tarmac of the path, her legs kicking wildly. Her mouth opens and her little body screams incoherent words.
One of the playworkers comes running but I hold her back. Effie needs space. Outwardly, I hope I appear calm but inside I am a mess. I’ve failed and I know it, but at the same time, I want to just walk away and not have to deal with this. For me, this is the hardest thing to cope with. Not cutting toast a particular way, not the lack of hugs, not listening to monologues on amphibians. It’s the meltdowns.
Effie is still very young. She can’t help it. She becomes overloaded and, like a boiler with too much pressure, it explodes out of her. It’s not a tantrum. She’s not doing this out of frustration because she wants a lollipop. It’s because she cannot cope anymore.
While she is little, it’s my job to spot when things are becoming too much before this happens. This is my failure and Effie is paying the price. My only hope is that we both become better at avoiding this as she grows older. She has to, because this is what kills relationships.
As the wave of emotion ebbs, Effie begins to sob. I move to her side, muttering calm words of reassurance. Every instinct is telling me to scoop her into my arms but while that might comfort me, it wouldn’t help her. I drape my coat over her shoulders instead; its weight may help to ground her. She curls into a ball, like a woodlouse terrified of the world. I let her. I will need to treat her hands; they’re bloody where the path has scraped away her skin, but it can wait.
Crouching beside her, I breathe deep breaths into her ear, hoping her body will match my pattern. Bit by bit, she calms. When she lifts her dazed, tear-streaked face, I avoid her eyes. She’s not ready for that yet. I keep the words soft, the breaths deep. And wait. The meltdown passes. It always does. But then we need to deal with the aftermath.
She’s exhausted. When she nods, I move in and pick her up. She’s heavy; nearly-five-year-olds weigh more than you think. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be able to lift her. But today, I manage. I take her back to the creche. It’s a safe space for her, better than an unknown car. I could kick myself. I should have thought to warn her. There’s no such thing as a wonderful surprise in Effie’s world. The unexpected is only ever more stress.
She is quiet as the playworker brings the first aid kit. I explain what I am going to do and wait for Effie’s sign of acceptance before I swab her palms. There isn’t much more to do. The bleeding is already clotting, forming scabs. I smear them with antiseptic lotion and lightly wrap a gauze bandage around her hand.
The playworker departs, leaving us in the dimly lit hall. I wait several minutes, praying no-one comes in to collect their child. When she’s ready, I explain, “Anders needed Toothless. So, he let us have another car instead.” Inspiration hits, and I go with it. It helps the car is blue. “I thought we could call herStormfly.”It’s another dragon from her current film obsession. But will it be enough?
Effie is still. The temptation to repeat myself is strong, but she has heard. She doesn’t need to be bombarded. I wait, counting seconds in my head. I get to twenty before she nods. It will be a while before she can manage words.
The entrance door starts to open, but halts. A father is having a testy conversation on the phone. It’s time to get Effie out of here. “Shall we go home?” I ask. Again, there is a lag before she nods, the tiniest, saddest movement. I let the staff know we are leaving and thank them before hauling Effie onto my hip. Then we go home.
As the days pass and Effie doesn’t mention Smauglette, I allow myself to hope she has forgotten the bearded dragon. I should know better. But it’s Saturday morning before she asks, “When can I see Smauglette?”
I answer honestly. “I don’t know. Anders hasn’t mentioned it.” And I specifically avoided the subject during our Friday update.
“Did you ask him?”
“It’s not polite to ask,” I tell her.
“Why?”
Good question. How to explain the intricacies of social interaction to a four-year-old. That sometimes people invite you but don’t really mean it. “Sometimes people are busy. They invite you but they don’t have time for you to visit. If you ask, they will have to put themselves out. Much better for them to arrange the visit when they have time.”
“But what if they forget?”
“Then sadly, you have to accept they have forgotten.”
“I’d want someone to remember me.”
“Do you mean remind?”
“Yes.” She considers a moment, turning over the niceties of social etiquette. “Isn’t that your job? To remind him.” There’s that extraordinary attention to detail again.
“At work, yes.”
“Then you can remind him.” Life is simple in a child’s mind.
“But meeting his lizard isn’t work.”
“Dragon, mummy,” she corrects. “Would he be cross?”
“Of course not. Anders is nice.” Eccentric. Driven. But nice. He has just given us a car.
“Then I think we should remind him.” I can foresee this going on forever and Effie’s persistence is greater than mine. I pick up my phone and message Anders.Effie is asking if she can meet Smauglette.
His reply is immediate.Are you doing anything this afternoon?
