Last weekend, at the excellent birthday party of a certain 4-year-old, my 14-month-old daughter, Sasha, had a blast. She scribbled with purple Magic Markers, drizzled glue on things, and sucked with glee on a juice box. She was a dynamo.
But a comment from one of the fathers there surprised me: Apparently, according to him, I’ve been keeping poor Sasha sheltered. Yes, it’s true: This was her very first juice box, her first experiment with glue, her first artistic production with something other than chalk. I guess on the Upper West Side, kids start doing these things somewhere around six months, while their country cousins out here in Boerum Hill don’t get none of that fancy civilization till they’s oldern.
But really—sheltered? For more than a year now, I’ve been carelessly exposing her to TV, swearing up a storm, dragging her among the homeless on California city streets, and generally letting her see and do whatever her half-developed brain impels her to. And since she’s expressed no further desire for juice boxes, I’ll happily avoid buying them. Instead, when Sasha wants juice, we’ll pour some into a cup and give her a straw. Is that so weird? And what else should she have been exposed to by now? Chicken McNuggets? Elmo? Herpes?
One other interesting thing came out of this first contact: Sasha’s first bout of diarrhea, which she no doubt (okay, some doubt) picked up in the filthy wilds of Manhattan. Now, if keeping Sasha sheltered keeps her stools firm and regular, then I’ll happily lock her in her room till she’s 18.
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