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Parenting
Embracing My Spirited Little Adventurer
by Laura Thompson
Updated: Aug. 25, 2023
Originally Published: Aug. 25, 2023
My youngest son, Oliver, is undeniably a spirited child. While “spirited” is the polite term, he is, in truth, wild. Wild in every sense, much like its dictionary definition:
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.
Oliver embodies all of these traits: he is uncontrolled, unrestrained, and uncultivated. Consequently, I often find myself utterly exhausted.
Oliver’s origin story is intertwined with the dissolution of my first marriage. He was the youngest of two tired parents attempting to salvage what remained of their family as everything around us crumbled. Oliver often found himself nestled between his father and me in bed, a comforting presence in a chaotic time. I welcomed this closeness, partly because he was my last baby, the smallest one, and because his presence created a buffer between us.
From the very beginning, he was accustomed to being in the warmth of my arms, nursing whenever he needed comfort, much like a lion cub seeking its mother. As time passed, I noticed certain things about him. He seemed perpetually unsatisfied, his little fists clenching in frustration when waiting for food or affection. The sounds he made while eating were desperate, almost animalistic, and his hunger appeared insatiable. He always demanded to be held and fed, and while I wanted to encourage him to self-soothe and find comfort on his own, I was simply too tired. With my focus divided among my other children and the struggles of a failing marriage, it was often easier to quiet his cries by holding him.
In those moments, I began to internalize the blame for his wild nature. I fed him when I should have let him learn to calm himself, clinging to my last baby for all the reasons a mother does—grief, nostalgia, and the complexity of a love that was both deep and complicated. Instead of addressing our issues, we often lay together in the stillness of the night, my little boy nestled between two parents who were trying to hold onto a relationship that was slipping away.
As the years went by, the wildness within Oliver only grew. He became a handsome, strong child, full of love for his family and the world around him. Yet, words like “gentle” or “moderation” seemed foreign to him. I found myself repeating the same phrases daily, almost like a chant: “You can’t jump on the couch.” “Please sit down while you eat.” “Close the door!” “Where are your shoes?” “Why are your socks wet?” The list was endless, and I felt my voice grow hoarse with repetition.
Initially, I thought his rambunctiousness was confined to our home and yard—until he started school. The notes from his teachers began to arrive: “Oliver is so kind but struggles to remain seated” and “He is a sweet boy, yet has difficulty keeping his hands to himself.” I would look up to see him devouring whatever snack was at hand, rolling around the living room like a playful puppy.
“Oh, Oliver,” I would sigh, nuzzling his sticky neck. “You need to stay in your seat at school. You can’t touch everything; remember, you must look with your eyes, not your hands.” He would wrap his arms around me, his breath warm against my ear. “I know, Mama. I try,” he would reply, his little voice filled with sincerity as he climbed onto my lap, now too small for him. “There are so many things to remember.”
Some mornings, coaxing him onto the school bus was a challenge. “What do you do all day, Mama? I wonder about you,” he asked one day while we waited for the bus. His curiosity worried me; I feared he might decide to escape school, like a clever monkey slipping out of its cage. Each day he returned home was a mix of worry and relief.
At night, Oliver always asked to be tucked in last. After saying goodnight to his siblings, I would squeeze into his twin bed, which was crammed with toys and treasures that mattered to him—eleven stuffed animals, completed sticker books, a school art project, a blanket from his sister, and a box of Legos. I would feel him snuggle up against me, and sometimes, lulled by his rhythmic breathing, I would drift off to sleep beside him.
As time advanced, Oliver gradually outgrew that small bed, but the wildness remained. While I’ve often tried to temper his spirited nature, I’ve come to realize that fitting in isn’t everything. Isn’t it a mother’s role to guide her child, to help them find their place in the world? Yet, I hold a secret close to my heart: I admire his freedom.
His wildness may make him vulnerable, yet it also opens him to a world full of possibilities. He loves fiercely, bouncing back from every fall with resilience. He finds comfort in familiar surroundings and dances to his own unique rhythm.
He’s still small, and there is time ahead of us. Despite the challenges and my fatigue, we are navigating this journey together. There is still time to channel his wildness and, equally, to allow him the space to roam free a little longer before that wildness fades away for good.
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Summary:
In this reflective piece, Laura Thompson shares her experiences raising her spirited son, Oliver, who embodies wildness and energy. Through the lens of her own challenges as a mother, she explores the delicate balance between nurturing his free spirit and guiding him toward understanding boundaries. Despite the exhaustion that comes with parenting a high-spirited child, she finds admiration in his adventurous nature and the lessons they learn together.