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I just came across this blog post talking about why it's unfair to call kids "shy" as easily as people do.
Mostly I agree with it, with a small caveat: I don't quite agree with this paragraph:
That said, in most cases we should have a choice about being touched. Instead of siding with the “stranger” and urging little Billy to “say, ‘Hi’” or “hug Uncle Louis,” it would probably be more productive to let their relationship develop at its own pace. Uncle Louis is a grown-up, he’s just going to have to accept it when you instead say something like, “Billy will say ‘Hi’ later,” or “He’s not ready for hugs.”
See, once a child is old enough for independent movement, whether little Billy hugs Uncle Louis is totally his call. However, urging little Billy to say hello is teaching little Billy the rules of social society, and humans are social creatures. Say hi, kid, it won't kill you.
The author does ascribe a little more damage-infliction to the "shy" label than I would, but I've never suffered from being labelled shy, so I'm not going to say that it's unwarranted. I was a friendly child, and I didn't really have a problem talking to adults. (I don't remember being encouraged to physical affection with adults I didn't know, but then, my family are first-generation immigrants, so I didn't have a lot of contact with unfamiliar family members.)
The toddler I babysit is old enough to answer when you ask him if he wants a cuddle, so he gets to decide that now. Sometimes he does. Sometimes he doesn't. His decision. But he doesn't get to decide everything, because he's a toddler, and the biggest thing he has to be doing right now is learning.
I love the little rugrat no end. I realised how much I truly, truly love him on Friday. I'd been giving him and his little brother a bath. I'd washed the toddler, let him play with his bath toys at the other end while I washed the baby, and then had dried off the baby and was letting the toddler play some more.
I was sitting next to the tub, and had turned my eyes away from the toddler to check on his brother. I glanced back, and realised that suddenly the water was full of poo. He'd pooped in the bath. (For the first time in his life. Because I swear, these kids have started coming up with new and exciting poo-related adventures for my babysitting visits.)
I freaked out, very slightly, which manifested as yanking him out of the water, and telling him very, very firmly do not move, not one step, stay right there as I dashed out and fetched wet-wipes with which to wipe down his legs, and a nappy to put him in. Nap-time was nominally next.
I came back and he was frozen in place, looking mystified about what Sami was doing, since normally when I bathe him I towel him off then dress him with no drama such as this.
Anyway, after a fair whack of drama, I had his brother ensconced in safety while I put the toddler to bed, and took the toddler to his room to get him tucked away. I was kind of exhausted, and grossed out, and did not feel like smiling.
But here I had the toddler, gazing at me trustingly, despite the fact that for a good ten minutes I'd been being stern and bossy. "Stay right there. Don't go in there. Come here. Hold still." And he was still just going with it as I went to, "It's nap time."
I felt like I needed crowbars to force the smile onto my face, but I got it there. "I love you very much," I told him sincerely, and gave him overdramatic mwah! mwah! kisses on both cheeks till he was smiling and giggling. "Okay, time for bed."
I put him in his cot, smiling with less effort, and gave him his sleep-companion-toy. "Sleep well, darling. I love you."
I closed the door.
I leaned on it for a second, eyes closed, and let the sentence finish itself only in my head: I love you, but I'm sick of you, so I'm really, really glad it's time for you to sleep for a while.
You can love someone and still really need a break from them so very, very hard.
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