No Monsters

Water flows into the white ceramic bowl of the pedestal sink, filling it as I ready the basin to shave.  A bit of steam rises.

“Hot water, Daddy.  Hot water.”  Standing by the sink, on the closed lid of the toilet, is a precocious little girl, not quite three.  She talks clearly in her little voice.  I'm amused as I hear her echoing the words that I've told her from the first time she saw me do this; an admonition to not put her hands in the flow of the faucet, or the bowl.

The ritual began one morning, when she was just a few months old and easy to carry in one arm.  My wife was getting things ready, and the little girl was causing some complication.  “I'll take her,” I had said.  I knew it was less of an inconvenience for me to hold her in one hand while I shaved, than for my wife to monitor our daughter's whereabouts as she moved across the apartment.

The first time I shaved with her, she watched with an abnormal amount of patient fascination for a 9 month old girl.  I was actually surprised she didn't reach out and try to touch the shaving cream on my face.  I think she tried once, but I gently told her not to, and she hasn't since.

After she learned to walk (three months later), she still wanted to watch, but eventually she decided to play.  Well, given the excitement she shows when she knows I'm shaving, I'm sure she simply didn't notice, given that she was distracted by her toys.

I announce that I'm shaving, and she comes running excitedly.  “I want to watch!”

The lid on the toilet is already down, and she climbs it expertly, standing on it, perfectly balanced, so she can watch me.  I realize I could use a step stool.

I apply shaving cream to my face.

“What are you doing, Daddy?”

“I'm putting shaving cream on, so I don't hurt myself.”  One morning in college, I was so tired that after wetting down my whiskers, I completely forgot about the shaving cream.  It was the first and last time I ever did that.  I think everyone in the hall heard the whiskers tearing off from my face.

This part is a bit of a ritual, though; she knows what I do, and likes to ask anyway.  The little parrot repeats my answers, too.  “Putting shaving cream, so you don't hurt yourself.”

Her first compound sentence came at two years: “Gonna go in the car and go to the pet shop.”  Now she's using more grammar rules.

I start shaving.  I am not quite finished on the first cheek, and I hear, “You almost done?”

I have to laugh.  “No, I'm just starting.”

Smiling while shaving can be more of an adventure than one may care to experience, but I can do it.  I've even shaved without the aid of a mirror; that impressed some workers who were fixing the bathroom in the apartment I was in at the time.

She watches me now, mostly quiet, making observations about the fact she's standing and watching, and what I'm doing.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm shaving.”  Talking and shaving at the same time is another skill.

“Why?”

“So I don't feel like a porcupine.”

“So you don't feel like – porcupine.”

Hearing her pronounce certain words amuses me.  She says it as a smart girl, trying to fit together more than two syllables.  She's managed to say her name (four syllables), and the word “colossal.”  It's fun to hear her talk, really.

“There's no such thing as monsters.”

It's interesting, how some things will come out of the blue.  There's no context here, just the statement on its own.  I really don't think anything of it, though.  After all, for a few months she would suddenly say, “Monsters!” and run to one of us.  To this day, I don't know where it came from.  I'm not an expert at child development, but I wouldn't be surprised if such a thing is normal.  Besides, she was watching Sesame Street since before she turned two.

I know what she's referring to as she makes the statement.  The hideous beasts that we, as children, all imagined that at one time, lived in our closets, under our beds, or lurked outside of the windows, waiting to snatch us if the closet were ajar, or if we dared put a limb over the side of the bed.  I'm not sure what we feared, or why, but we feared it.

“No,” I answer, “there's no such thing as monsters.”

How can I tell her otherwise?  She wouldn't understand.  There are monsters, though.  The trouble is, they're not obviously monsters, and they're not recognized as monsters until it's too late.  You read about what they do, the crimes they commit, and thank your lucky stars you or your children weren't part of it.

But because monsters exist, we make decisions.  We know we cannot protect our little girl forever, but for a time, we can do something.  She isn't in any day care, and she won't be going to one.  There are a select few people with whom I will trust this little girl.  Including family members, I could probably count them all on my two hands.

Because there are monsters, and we cannot identify them.  They live among us, look like us, act like us, dress like us, talk like us.  Until that fateful day, at which point we ask why we never saw it coming.  Why we couldn't prevent the thing from happening.  How could we have possibly seen it?  By then, the damage has already been done.  The only hope is that the impact on the individual's psyche will be minimal.

But all that makes for a horrifying thought for a parent.  We do what we can to protect the child, until we can teach the child to protect him or herself.  We teach children to stay away from strangers, don't trust them, only trust the people you know.  That's the safest thing to do, after all; stay away.  Only stay and fight if and when you have to, and still try to find a way out.

Because there are monsters.  Monsters that don't come in any obvious form.  Monsters that don't hide under the bed, or live in closets, but walk the streets.  When she gets older, she'll understand that.  She may not actually think that there are monsters as such, but she will be aware she can't trust everyone.

The little girl standing next to me, watching me shave with her bright blue eyes, cannot possibly comprehend this.  I ruffle her curly blond hair.  Is she tow-headed?  Does it matter?  I'm a guy, I see curly and blond, and that's what I understand.  That poor kid will have a horrible time combing her hair.  In fact, she already does.  Remarkably, I understand that basic concept, too.

She repeats herself.  “No such thing as monsters.”

“That's right,” I agree, “there's no such thing as monsters.”

She's nearly three, and I'll let her enjoy it.  There's no sense in scaring her, no sense in trying to explain the complicated things I think sometimes.  For her, there are no such things as monsters.

I finish shaving, rinse my face, and dry it off.  She's still standing on the toilet.  I reach down to her, and she puts her arms up.  “Hugs for daddy?”

She lets me pick her up, and gives me the best hug she can for a nearly three year old girl.  She's happy.  I put her down, and she rushes off to play happily elsewhere in the house, confident that there are no monsters.