What Our Children Teach Us

Excerpted from
What Our Children Teach Us: Lessons in Joy, Love and Awareness
By Piero Ferrucci

During our first pregnancy, Vivien and I visit the birth homes of two geniuses: Mozart and Leonardo da Vinci.

At Mozart's house in Salzburg, you can see his musical instruments and some of his manuscripts and portraits. Despite the coming and going of tourists, we somehow manage to imagine and feel his presence. In Vinci, a museum shows Leonardo's ingenious machines and mechanisms as they have been faithfully reconstructed from his drawings: the bicycle, the helicopter, the airplane, and others. You can also visit his home. It is exciting to imagine Leonardo there as a child, growing, playing, beginning to reflect and to create.

Both of these excursions enrich us and make the pregnancy even more special. For me, however, they are also symbolic. In going to Vinci and Salzburg, I hope to make contact with the miracle of genius. What if it were contagious? I confess: Deep down I want our future child to become another Leonardo or another Mozart.

No, I am not deluding myself. Genius is one in a billion. But at least my child could be gifted, capable of making an original contribution to art or science. I have always considered the human mind to be a mine of wondrous potentialities. To raise a child means to see this reality at work.

There is no harm in this way of thinking. In fact, if each of us were to acknowledge the exceptional element in ourselves, the world would only get better. But in my attitude toward my unborn child, there is an almost compulsive ambition. Fear, too. What if I have a mediocre child? How awful! No, my child has to be special, and I will do every thing I can to help him be so. I have read all the scientific research on how to encourage all of my child's talents. I can't wait to see the realization of his gifts.

Only after some time do I realize how these expectations make me pedantic and heavy. And I see that Emilio's true development has nothing to do with my fantasies. He has his own pace, his own independent drive, his own destiny.

I learn this lesson when Emilio is a couple of months old. I have read lots of books on how to turn your child into a genius, and I start making him do gymnastics for newborns. This training stimulates connections between brain cells, the books assure us. But despite their promises of a joyous response from the baby, I notice that Emilio often turns his head away when I try to train him-the sign of aversion in a baby. He does not cry-I handle him very gently-but neither is he enthusiastic.

It takes very little for me to understand: Emilio does not want to perform these exercises. They are an intrusion, and he has no way of defending himself. I step back, just look, and enjoy his spontaneous movements in all their beauty. Like all babies, he knows very well how to do gymnastics in a way far more complete and organic than I can ever teach him. I see that Emilio is fine as he is, without need of correction. His movements make a naturally aesthetic performance, like the dance of dolphins or the sprint of a cheetah.

At first this intuition is painful. Emilio will not be a genius after all. Or at least I won't be able to make him exceptionally intelligent. It is the death of a dream. But then I feel relief. I give him permission, inside me, to be what he is. Perhaps he will be an ordinary child. I realize that I no longer have control of the process. I shrink to size as well: No more a Pygmalion, I become a mere assistant. But straight afterward I see him as he is, perfect without interference. This is the state of grace-instead of anxiety and compulsion, I enjoy the simple pleasure of being.

Dreams of greatness, I realize, are a family tradition. My mother wanted me to be a superachiever. From the beginning she tried in various ways to stimulate my intelligence. I still remember how proud she was in telling the "train story." I was two years old, sitting on a train, and I started reading the newspaper of the person in front of me out loud. The passengers in the compartment were amazed.

All my mother's expectations have weighed on me-however much she loved me. Even now, after so many years, I sometimes have the feeling I am living an existence that is not entirely mine, a life whose course has been decided by someone else. If I have an ambition, for example, I am not sure it is really mine. Maybe I am trying to satisfy my mother's desires, or the need of someone who is no longer here, but whose expectations live on in me. And I risk doing the same to Emilio.

Understanding this lesson is a long way away from assimilating it, however. In the school of life I am a slow student, and I have to tackle the same lesson many times. Four months later, Jonathan is nine months old and is learning how to cat. According to the growth charts, he is a little underweight. According to the visible evidence, he is in splendid health, cheerful and full of vitality. But as a genuinely anxious parent, I believe more in the growth chart than in my own eyes. When Jonathan eats, I think mainly about how much he is eating. Is it enough? How much protein is he absorbing? Will this food help him grow?