The "Battle of the Brick" and the infantile characteristics of megalomania.
Perhaps its because I studied too much theory at University – much more than I ever really understood or cared to study - which explains why I can’t help making analogies between the wise observations of our great political philosophers and my children’s behaviour.
Sometimes, in fact mostly, the children behave quite Hobbsian – they morph into a collective Leviathan where their anarchy, self-interest and pursuit of resources threatens to consume and annihilate them. Other times they remind me of Rousseau and his noble beast. The idea that homosapiens are, by nature, gracious and generous. It is only the invention of property law that debases them. I think this when they get dressed up and venture into the garden.
Imagine if you will, just for a moment, that each of my children is a sovereign independent state operating under the rules of international relations. They begin life as primitive, self-interested beasts, but gradually over time transform themselves into a co-operative partnership.
J., our dear eldest child, horrified me when he progressed out of the sweet innocence of incapable babyhood into a bi-podal thug. Any kid who dared to take an interest in his toys was met with a growl and a push. His toddler body language: “Back off. My toy. Me no share”. Its very difficult trying to rationalise the complex theories of co-operative optimisation to a twenty month old toddler – “actually, J sweetie pies, its fun to share. J – it IS fun to share. No J. Do not push. J. stop that screaming – that’s enough. Alright….now give that toy back!” They do eventually move on thank-goodness.
But, I have four children and whilst J. has moved way beyond his primitive former self – up pops R. – yep he’s turning two in a couple of months and he is already beginning to display signs of the same brutish behaviour as his brother did seven years previously.
Blame it all on Lego. The row began with Lego bricks, which for all intents and purposes could have been as important to R. as Alsace-Lorrain is to the French. It was like World War I out there. The battle was intense, personal and as far as R. was concerned needed to be fought to the end. No compromise. Total victory.
R.’s vocal abilities extend to a few monosyllables. He is rather good at imitating, parrot-fashion, certain words – but his ability to express his thoughts are not yet ripe enough to express his fury at finding no bricks with which to build his tower. They had all be siphoned off by his cousin with whom he normally likes to hang out. George, age 3, was in no mood to share having just found himself a treasure trove of fun.
R.’s first tactic was to enlist outside help – stir up a few allies and see if he could get them on-side. He acted a bit like Belgium in such a situation – refusing to pay for any defences but crying fowl when anyone dares to trespass on its territories. “Help me. I am small. How can I defend myself in the face of older toddler aggression?”
Adult intervention, however, had decided that “it was George’s turn to play with the bricks”. The powers that be tried to distract R. with other incentives in a bid to prevent the action escalating. "How about a train R? No. O.K. what about the wooden blocks. NOOO? Alright – look at the robot L’s just got it working again. NOOOOO! Nothing was ever going to be good enough. Never mind that R. can lay claim to a lounge full of toys - it was the Lego bricks he wanted and that smug George had just cheated him out of HIS Lego bricks.
R.s response to a reasonable alternative, being offered by objective outsiders, was to stand in the middle of the floor and …..hOOOOwl… His howling rather annoyed the adults who were trying to enjoy breakfast and found the noise an irritant – rather like sandpaper gently rubbing against the nerves.
After five minutes or so of R. standing stock still but with mouth wide open and emitting a sound like a Blitz siren, George had had enough of the Lego bricks and decided to move into the kitchen in pursuit of some other interest. Close to R.s feet lay the one green Lego brick he had managed to cling onto as a reminder of what had once been his. A flicker of cool intent and calm determination crossed the brow of his face. Rather like a Wagnerian anti-hero he picked up the Lego brick, spear-like, and charged full force towards George. R.'s arm was poised above his head and in pure fury he prepared to hurl the brick at George. I warned you the fight was personal and R. was just as ready to stab Geroge in the back than confront him head on. There was no honour, no decency, no rules of engagement in this fight. R's howl had turned into an angry throaty snarl – as he ran towards his unsuspecting victim.
Unlike the international community, however, R. has a much bigger arbiter of these squabbles. No United Nations dithering over the justness of his approach or wringing hands over how to stop the on slaught. In R.'s path stood G. who with one hand grabbed him and saved George from a rather nasty assault. Had R. succeeded the escalation would have been horrific and we adults would not have been allowed another cup of coffee or even contemplated enjoying another slice of bread with jam for breakfast. Luckily G. saved the day and warned R. that he would be put in the "naughty corner" if he continued. Geroge was pleased - for once it wasn't he who was being threatned with the naughty corner. In ten mintues it was all over and the two toddlers had moved onto playing "co-operatively".
But another, more telling story, confirms in my mind that megalomaniacs are retarded infants. The other day – just before Christmas L. had lain her hands on J’s globe. Its a good thing J. didn't see this - otherwise there may have been another growly situation. She had carried it downstairs and into the kitchen where she idly swung it around watching the land and sea mass whiz by.
“Mummy, I know a good game” she announced. “I’ll spin the globe and whereever my finger lands to stop it – you have to tell me which country it is.”
Very educational. I thoroughly approved of course. So we began to play – whizzzz - stop - where's that? That’s Canada. Whizz - stop - where's that? That’s the Indian Ocean..... Cote d’Ivoire....if you land your finger down there you’ll find Australia etc. etc.
Finally she enquired: “And where is the country that we live in?”
“Well its just here – in between France and the Netherlands..”
“Where Mummy? I can’t see it.”
Even her little finger just about managed to cover the entire country – with not much room left over for any green edging.
“Is that it?” she said indignantly. "Is that all?"
She paused and then whizzed the glob eastward and stopped.
“No. Mummy. I want this country.” She landed her finger firmly in the middle of Russia.
Well, the middle may be small but personally – and no offence to any Russians reading, I would rather live in the small prosperous and peaceful middle than in the vast open expanses of the Russian hinterland. But then again, children don’t know better. Lydia, still has a lot to learn. I don’t think she even remembers where the Cote d’Ivoire or Canada are on the map – let alone the middle.
Sometimes, in fact mostly, the children behave quite Hobbsian – they morph into a collective Leviathan where their anarchy, self-interest and pursuit of resources threatens to consume and annihilate them. Other times they remind me of Rousseau and his noble beast. The idea that homosapiens are, by nature, gracious and generous. It is only the invention of property law that debases them. I think this when they get dressed up and venture into the garden.
Imagine if you will, just for a moment, that each of my children is a sovereign independent state operating under the rules of international relations. They begin life as primitive, self-interested beasts, but gradually over time transform themselves into a co-operative partnership.
J., our dear eldest child, horrified me when he progressed out of the sweet innocence of incapable babyhood into a bi-podal thug. Any kid who dared to take an interest in his toys was met with a growl and a push. His toddler body language: “Back off. My toy. Me no share”. Its very difficult trying to rationalise the complex theories of co-operative optimisation to a twenty month old toddler – “actually, J sweetie pies, its fun to share. J – it IS fun to share. No J. Do not push. J. stop that screaming – that’s enough. Alright….now give that toy back!” They do eventually move on thank-goodness.
But, I have four children and whilst J. has moved way beyond his primitive former self – up pops R. – yep he’s turning two in a couple of months and he is already beginning to display signs of the same brutish behaviour as his brother did seven years previously.
Blame it all on Lego. The row began with Lego bricks, which for all intents and purposes could have been as important to R. as Alsace-Lorrain is to the French. It was like World War I out there. The battle was intense, personal and as far as R. was concerned needed to be fought to the end. No compromise. Total victory.
R.’s vocal abilities extend to a few monosyllables. He is rather good at imitating, parrot-fashion, certain words – but his ability to express his thoughts are not yet ripe enough to express his fury at finding no bricks with which to build his tower. They had all be siphoned off by his cousin with whom he normally likes to hang out. George, age 3, was in no mood to share having just found himself a treasure trove of fun.
R.’s first tactic was to enlist outside help – stir up a few allies and see if he could get them on-side. He acted a bit like Belgium in such a situation – refusing to pay for any defences but crying fowl when anyone dares to trespass on its territories. “Help me. I am small. How can I defend myself in the face of older toddler aggression?”
Adult intervention, however, had decided that “it was George’s turn to play with the bricks”. The powers that be tried to distract R. with other incentives in a bid to prevent the action escalating. "How about a train R? No. O.K. what about the wooden blocks. NOOO? Alright – look at the robot L’s just got it working again. NOOOOO! Nothing was ever going to be good enough. Never mind that R. can lay claim to a lounge full of toys - it was the Lego bricks he wanted and that smug George had just cheated him out of HIS Lego bricks.
R.s response to a reasonable alternative, being offered by objective outsiders, was to stand in the middle of the floor and …..hOOOOwl… His howling rather annoyed the adults who were trying to enjoy breakfast and found the noise an irritant – rather like sandpaper gently rubbing against the nerves.
After five minutes or so of R. standing stock still but with mouth wide open and emitting a sound like a Blitz siren, George had had enough of the Lego bricks and decided to move into the kitchen in pursuit of some other interest. Close to R.s feet lay the one green Lego brick he had managed to cling onto as a reminder of what had once been his. A flicker of cool intent and calm determination crossed the brow of his face. Rather like a Wagnerian anti-hero he picked up the Lego brick, spear-like, and charged full force towards George. R.'s arm was poised above his head and in pure fury he prepared to hurl the brick at George. I warned you the fight was personal and R. was just as ready to stab Geroge in the back than confront him head on. There was no honour, no decency, no rules of engagement in this fight. R's howl had turned into an angry throaty snarl – as he ran towards his unsuspecting victim.
Unlike the international community, however, R. has a much bigger arbiter of these squabbles. No United Nations dithering over the justness of his approach or wringing hands over how to stop the on slaught. In R.'s path stood G. who with one hand grabbed him and saved George from a rather nasty assault. Had R. succeeded the escalation would have been horrific and we adults would not have been allowed another cup of coffee or even contemplated enjoying another slice of bread with jam for breakfast. Luckily G. saved the day and warned R. that he would be put in the "naughty corner" if he continued. Geroge was pleased - for once it wasn't he who was being threatned with the naughty corner. In ten mintues it was all over and the two toddlers had moved onto playing "co-operatively".
But another, more telling story, confirms in my mind that megalomaniacs are retarded infants. The other day – just before Christmas L. had lain her hands on J’s globe. Its a good thing J. didn't see this - otherwise there may have been another growly situation. She had carried it downstairs and into the kitchen where she idly swung it around watching the land and sea mass whiz by.
“Mummy, I know a good game” she announced. “I’ll spin the globe and whereever my finger lands to stop it – you have to tell me which country it is.”
Very educational. I thoroughly approved of course. So we began to play – whizzzz - stop - where's that? That’s Canada. Whizz - stop - where's that? That’s the Indian Ocean..... Cote d’Ivoire....if you land your finger down there you’ll find Australia etc. etc.
Finally she enquired: “And where is the country that we live in?”
“Well its just here – in between France and the Netherlands..”
“Where Mummy? I can’t see it.”
Even her little finger just about managed to cover the entire country – with not much room left over for any green edging.
“Is that it?” she said indignantly. "Is that all?"
She paused and then whizzed the glob eastward and stopped.
“No. Mummy. I want this country.” She landed her finger firmly in the middle of Russia.
Well, the middle may be small but personally – and no offence to any Russians reading, I would rather live in the small prosperous and peaceful middle than in the vast open expanses of the Russian hinterland. But then again, children don’t know better. Lydia, still has a lot to learn. I don’t think she even remembers where the Cote d’Ivoire or Canada are on the map – let alone the middle.
posted by Kathleen at 8:14 AM
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