My youngest child, Noah, is undeniably a spirited little one. To put it simply, he’s wild. Wild in every sense of the word, as the dictionary describes: wild: wīld / adjective 1. (of an animal or plant) living or growing in the natural environment; not domesticated or cultivated. 2. uncontrolled or unrestrained, especially in pursuit of pleasure.
Noah embodies all of those traits: he is uncontrolled, unrestrained, and unrefined. And I, for reasons that are all too familiar, often find myself utterly exhausted.
Noah’s “natural environment” coincided with the turmoil of my previous marriage. He was the last child born to two weary parents who were desperately holding onto the remnants of a family as everything around us crumbled. He would roam in our bed, nestled between his father and me. I welcomed him there, partly because he was my last little one, and partly because his presence created a larger gap between us.
From an early age, Noah became accustomed to being close, nursing whenever he wanted, much like a lion cub seeking comfort. As time passed, I began to notice certain things. His insatiable hunger, the way he clenched his fists faster than my older kids had when waiting for attention, the untamed sounds he made while eating—each moment revealing his unquenchable thirst for engagement. He always craved being held and fed, and while I wanted to encourage independence and self-soothing, my fatigue often led me to simply pick him up to quiet the chaos.
I started to internalize the blame for his wildness. I fed him too easily, held him too long, and in doing so, I overlooked the need for him to navigate his comfort. We existed together in the silence of the night, the child we created with a blend of our essences resting between us, sweat-soaked and sound asleep.
As the years rolled on, the marriage ultimately fell apart, and with it, Noah’s wildness only seemed to flourish. He was charming, strong, and kind-hearted, yet words like “gentle” or “moderation” were foreign to him. He was a whirlwind, often trailing behind, and I found myself repeating the same phrases endlessly: “Don’t jump on the couch!” “Sit down while you eat!” “Shut the door!” “Where are your shoes?” The list went on until my voice was hoarse and my sanity frayed.
Initially, I believed his wild ways were confined to our home. However, once he started school, I received notes from his teachers that revealed a different reality. “He’s a kind soul but struggles with sitting still,” one note stated. Another read, “Noah is sweet but finds it hard to keep his hands to himself.” I could see my son, that sweet boy, devouring snack after snack while rolling around like a playful otter in the living room.
“Oh, Noah,” I sighed, burying my face in his messy hair. “You need to stay seated in class. You can’t touch everything, buddy. Use your eyes, not your hands.” He would hug me tightly, whispering, “I try, Mama. I really do.” His innocent admission made me realize how overwhelming it was for him to remember all the rules.
Some mornings, convincing him to go to school felt like a monumental task. “What do you do all day, Mama?” he would ponder as we waited for the bus near a snowbank. His curiosity sometimes worried me, making me fear that I might turn around to find him sneaking back into the house, like a clever monkey escaping its cage. Day after day, I felt relief wash over me when he returned home.
This cycle of worry and relief is the essence of love for a wild child.
Each night, Noah would request to be tucked in last. After kissing his brothers goodnight, I would squeeze into his small bed, surrounded by a sea of stuffed animals, Lego creations, and remnants of his day. It was a tight fit, but there was something comforting about being close to him. I often found myself dozing off, his soft breaths lulling me to sleep.
As Noah grew, his wild spirit continued to blossom, filling the space around him. I often felt compelled to tame his energy, believing that a mother’s role was to help her child conform, to guide them into a place of calm. But here’s the truth that I rarely speak out loud: I admire his freedom.
Noah’s wildness makes him open to the world. He loves fiercely, always getting back up after life knocks him down. He has learned to find comfort in familiar scents and experiences, seemingly indifferent to the fact that he dances to the beat of his own drum.
He is still young, and there is plenty of time ahead. Even as I feel overwhelmed, we are navigating this journey together, allowing him to embrace his wildness for just a bit longer before it slips away entirely.
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In summary, embracing the wildness of our children can be daunting yet rewarding. It’s a journey filled with love, challenges, and the beauty of watching them grow.
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