Small Babies, Small Problems

It was Diwali. 

We were visiting Ammi Abba in Old Delhi.

I had finally managed to get him to sleep.

Outside, firecrackers were exploding on the steps that led down into the narrow lanes below. People were talking loudly. Children were running around.

The entire neighborhood seemed to be celebrating at full volume.

That was simply how Diwali worked in Old Delhi.

But I was convinced he was going to wake up.

And if he woke up, I was equally convinced that he would never go back to sleep.

I worried about every sound.

The firecrackers.

The conversations.

The footsteps.

This was the first time he had been outside the carefully choreographed environment of my home and my mother's home.

At home, I knew the routine.

I knew what worked.

I knew what came next.

Out there, surrounded by noise and celebration and a world that refused to follow my carefully constructed schedule, I had no idea how I would get him back to sleep if the rhythm of the evening was disturbed.

Seeing my distress, my mother-in-law smiled and said,

"Small babies, small problems.
Big babies, big problems."

I remember almost feeling offended.

How could she call this a small problem?

My son might wake up.

He might cry.

He might refuse to sleep.

There was nothing small about it.

Years later, I laughed when I remembered that conversation.

Because she was right.

Over the years, I found myself repeating those same words to young people.

Including my own boys.

Small babies, small problems.

Big babies, big problems.

When a baby is small, the problems are small.

They are physical.
Immediate.
Finite.

You burp them.
You feed them.
You change diapers.
You wash tiny clothes.
You try to get them to sleep.

If they cry, there is usually a reason.
Hunger.
Discomfort.
Fatigue.

The world is still simple.
Contained within your arms.
Contained within your control.

Exhausting, yes.
But narrow.

As children grow, the problems widen.

Food becomes choice.
Sleep becomes negotiation.
Routine becomes something you must build rather than enforce.

There are milestones to track.
Motor skills.
Language.
Cognition.

You begin to think about school.
Schedules.
Social skills.
Friendships.

You are no longer just keeping a child alive.
You are helping them learn how to exist in the world.

And the world is not simple.

As they grow older, the problems are no longer things you can fix with your hands.

They involve emotions you cannot regulate for them.
Situations you cannot fully control.
Decisions you can guide but not make.

Teenage years bring exposure.
Risk.
Influence.

Young adulthood brings independence.
Freedom.
Consequences.

With every stage, more of the world becomes accessible to them.
And with access comes danger.

Confusion.
Heartbreak.
Choice.

The problems are no longer small because the stakes are no longer small.

At fifteen.
At eighteen.
At twenty.

It becomes easy, in those years, to wish for the earlier days.
For problems that could be solved with a clean diaper.
A warm meal.
A nap.

So don’t rush your child into growing up.
Let them be small.

Enjoy every moment they are small.
And every stage of their growing up.

Their problems will grow proportionately with age no matter what you do.

Enjoy the simpler days while they last.

Maybe that’s what Ammi meant.

It was never about babies.
It was about perspective.