Well let me tell you, if you thought Dolphie getting an IEP for speech therapy was nuts, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. Because as it turns out, that was just the beginning of the madness. Over the course of the past six months or so, Dolphie has been joined by three siblings. They are: Sharkie, a stuffed (what else?) shark; Rae, a stuffed sting-ray Jim and Evie brought back from Florida; and Mandy, a stuffed manatee, also from Florida, ferried by Aunt Bobbie.

With this crew, Simon has managed to create an entire make-believe family, imagine what it must be like to have siblings, and take a stab at parenting a family of four. Each girl—and yes, they are all girls—has a distinctive personality by now. Rae, the oldest, is smart and fast, but she also sometimes stings people. You have to keep an eye on Sharkie for obvious reasons. Dolphie is the original sea sibling, the second-oldest, the ring-leader of the group, and is a good girl even if she’s slightly hyper at times. Mandy is the youngest of the group, and she struggles to keep up with her siblings because age and girth keep her from being able to do some of the same things they do.

How’s that for crazy?

What is perhaps less crazy is that all of this role-playing is providing a mirror into my own parenting and Simon’s instincts to nurture others. For example, Rae, like all the aquatic sisters, says “hee” a lot. Three nights ago I was informed of the following:

“Mama, Fairy Rays* only say ‘hee’ until they are 10. So I only have four short years left before Rae never ‘hees’ again!” [Insert sad, sighing sound here.]

Thus it would appear that Simon has learned to mourn the too-swift passage of time from me. I thought I was getting better about vocalizing my concern at how fast Simon is growing up, but this has certainly put me on notice. Then again, it’s nice to know that Simon is enjoying surrogate parenting.

On a more positive note, Simon is always, always asking me questions related to favoritism among the girls. As with all questions in this line, whether they are about the preschoolers I teach, family members, or his friends, I decline to answer the way he wants me to and refuse to rank people. Two nights ago, in response to something or other Simon said or did regarding Mandy, I turned the tables on him:

“Simon, is Mandy your favorite?”

“No, Mama, I don’t have favorites. Mandy just gets the most attention now because she’s a baby. Once she’s older, it won’t be like this.”

You can’t make this stuff up. Although, it would appear, Simon can make up lots of stuff about stuffed animals!

* Rae is a “Fairy Ray” for the same reason the other girls are also fairy version of their species; he had to come up with a reason for the girls to have fur and live on land, and making them fairies allowed him to dispense with normal laws of biology and physics.

Then there’s Shakespeare Camp, which may sound like a needle scratch on the album of Simon’s life. And yet, I see signs that this camp, which covers acting, costuming, and stage-craft, could be great.* One sign is that while Simon cannot draw particularly well (he’s not progressed past primitive stick-figures), he does enjoy art when it’s presented to him in a non-threatening way. Painting abstract images with his friend Ruby years ago was always fun for him. And this year’s school art teacher found ways to get science-y kids to explore to their creative sides. (Thanks Ms. Martin!) Whether it was computer-generated art, pointillism, or paper mache insects, Simon was engaged in art in a way he usually isn’t.

Another sign is Simon’s interest in costuming. He was very engaged in his Hong Kong Phooey costume two years ago and Marvin the Martian this past year, and we’re already trying to figure out what might be fun for Halloween 2015. Plus, whenever he’s had reader theater at school—whether parents were invited to come watch or not—he has been eager to put together a costume. The kids likes to commit to his roles.

But the biggest sign to me that theater camp might be great is his willingness and ability to ham it up with me and Matt. And believe me, he’s figured out ways to enhance any given performance in service of manipulation. Just a few weeks ago he was fake upset about not getting to do something or other when I detected tears in the car. Even from the driver’s seat I could tell that the tears were real, yet manufactured if that makes sense. He wasn’t fake crying exactly, but his affect was slightly off from the real deal.

“Simon,” I asked. “Are you crying?”

“Yes,” he sniffled.

“Hm. I can tell, but it sounds a little off. I’m not totally convinced. Did you somehow make yourself cry?”

“Yeah, I figured out how to do it. I just give myself the forever thought**, and then I start crying.”

Yeah–that’s a kid who’s ready for drama camp I’d say.

I also think this camp could be good for Simon, who is a very well spoken introvert. He’s not shy, but crowds and new people can unnerve him. Despite this, I know he’s often the spokesperson for his grade-level on school tours. In other words, Simon doesn’t like making chit-chat with strangers, but he’s good when called upon to inform others.

I am not upset that Simon is an introvert, and I do not consider introversion to be a failing. Far from it, introverts can be great observers and listeners. But in an extroverted society like ours, being able to selectively socialize, speak in public, and generally project yourself when necessary, are valuable tools to have at your disposal. And since I think Simon is ready to start adding them, drama camp struck me as a great place to start.

*If you were wondering why I chose such an out-of-left field camp, it’s because I thought his best friend Caroline was going and I had a chance to snag it for 1/3 the list price at a school benefit auction. Turns out Caroline is at a different acting camp this summer, but we recruited a school friend Rayna to go. As long as he has a buddy, it should be OK. Plus, my niece Maddie will be there with the older kids and can send give him a passing high-five when needed.

** The “forever thought” is Simon’s own terminology for fretting about the permanence of death. Alongside the fact that the Earth will one day be consumed by the sun, it is Simon’s number one source of existential fear and dread. That he’s now harnessing this dread to wrangle Panera and ice cream out of me is simultaneously alarming and reassuring.

For the past three seasons, Simon has played with Louisville Soccer Alliance (LSA). They are a non-select club that offers a spot to all who make a commitment to play and practice. They respect that many children are multi-sport athletes who have to occasionally miss a game, and the cost—at $700 per year including a uniform and two tournaments—is the best bargain in soccer for those who want to play in the local competitive league. They are a family-friendly club that has been very good to us, but that we are nevertheless about to leave.

As of tomorrow, Simon will be joining the Kentucky Fire Juniors, a select team, and the culture we are a part of will dramatically change. He had to try out for this team, players are assigned to ranked teams according to their tryout performance, and I  have a mountain of paperwork to complete before Simon gets measured for his uniform tomorrow. Practices will be three times a week, there will be an expectation that practices and games are missed only rarely and under extraordinary circumstances, and the cost—at twice the LSA rate not including three separate uniforms—is sky high.

I am slightly concerned that Matt and I do not belong at this club and that we aren’t going to have much in common with the parents there. However, I am equally certain that this is where Simon belongs. He has had a foot on a ball for four years now and is an intense competitor who will thrive in a select team atmosphere. He’s also got some talent, being particularly good at reading the field, finding space, and making great passes. He’s only 8, but he’s a natural mid-fielder.

And did I mention that he loves it? I just sorted through his papers from this past year, and nearly every personal narrative concerned soccer at some level. He plays it whenever he can, and when he’s not playing it he’s writing about it, talking about it, watching it, and even dreaming about it.

Simon actually practiced with the Fire twice this winter after being scouted in a Fire-affiliated rec league. The practice was fast, intense, and included zero time for socializing. From a non-athlete’s perspective, it looked stressful. Simon, being an actual athlete, loved every minute of it, walked off the field drenched in sweat, and breathlessly declared “I’m totally coming here in the fall.”

His mind was made up: One last season with his friends, many of whom were older and would be in a different division next year. One last season with his head coach, who moved to St. Louis last Monday. And then he’d move on to greener, and winning-er, pastures. There was just the small matter of a tryout, which he aced, securing a spot on the U-10 team 2. (Simon is technically a U-9 for boys who are age 8 as of August 1, but since he’s been playing up for a year and a half now, he tried out for the team for boys who are 9 as of August 1.)

The Kentucky Fire Juniors coaching staff has been nothing but friendly and helpful to me and Matt. So why am I wary? I’ll tell you why: Because during tryouts, when the boys were out scrimmaging and doing cone drills in their numbered shirts, the Fire had a guest speaker address the parents. And what did he talk to us about? Travel and college scholarships. That’s right, while 9-year-olds were on the field being evaluated by coaches, a veteran Kentucky Fire Junior parent was telling us all about the college scouting process and how he has a Subaru with 280K miles on it from all the travel.

“Any questions?” he asked the mostly eager and attentive parents? “Yeah,” I thought to myself, “Who is your mechanic?” Because while I think it’s ridiculous to be discussing college scholarships with the parents of rising fourth-graders, I’m totally invested in finding a mechanic who can get me 180K additional miles on my ’97 Camry.

Ready, wary, skeptical, or not, I’ll still be at tomorrow’s Fire open house and uniform fitting. And I’ll be keeping my snarky opinions (mostly) to myself. Because while I might think that many of these parents are off their rockers, high level soccer is my son’s dream. Plus, all this talk of college has a definite upside for us, because most of the time Simon insists he’s skipping college to go straight to the pros. It might be crazy, but it’s less crazy than his own plan, so I’ll take it!

1. He’s starting to make his own food.
2. He’s showering with no assistance at all.
3. He’s doing things like homework without being told.
4. He’s sneaking candy and treats and is smart enough to hide the evidence.

Those are mostly small things that many children began doing years ago. Then there are the biggies:

1. Two weeks ago Simon asked me if he could start walking to the bus stop and waiting for the bus alone. I should let him, but the fact that our street doesn’t have sidewalks makes me very nervous. I admire the desire, but he might have to wait a while longer.
2. Last weekend, in a soccer tournament, Simon was in goal when a player on the opposing team slid into him. Simon ended up with that boy’s cleat firmly planted in his neck. It hurt, and he had to leave the field. I stayed on the parents’ sideline, convinced that if the coaches needed me, they’d wave me over. I was slightly afraid my presence might make him feel worse. Afterwards, when we discussed the incident, Simon had this to say: “I wanted to get back in the game so I could smash that kid in the face with the ball.” He meant it, too!
3. After discussing the incident, I took a look at Simon’s neck looking for lingering redness or cleat marks. I didn’t see any, but Simon told me the area was still tender. So I kissed it. That puzzled Simon, and he told me as much. “Here’s a funny thing about parents that I’ve noticed. When their boy or girl hurts themselves, they always want to kiss the part that hurts. What good is that supposed to do?” Mother’s magic touch is gone, I tell you.
4. While Simon is still super sensitive to loud noises, he doesn’t sit back and cry about them any more. Last week, when his class was being awful in the cafeteria, he stood up and tried to take control. He failed miserably, but I admire the effort and take it as one more sign of his growing maturity.

It’ll be interesting to see how fast this maturation project gains steam. Right now, we’re clearly revving up. And I have to say, I’m not experiencing any wistfulness about his growing independence. Instead—at this point anyway—I’m thrilled by the peak at the person he is becoming. It’s better than any movie trailer I could imagine!

But here’s a little ditty to jump-start the habit again. Last week was Simon’s half birthday. This was a big deal for him. He reminded me about it several times and dropped more than a few hints that we should be doing something.

“Mama, did you forget something about today?”

“Mama, do you remember what today is?”

“Mama, did you know it’s my half-birthday?”

To which the answers were yes, yes now that you remind me, and yes again. But we’re still not going to do anything, and here’s why.

Once upon a time (this year), in a preschool far, far away (two miles from our house), there was a little child whose birthday it was. When this child came into my class, she was excited about her paper crown, her cupcakes, and her special day. And I wanted her to feel special, too! So I asked her how old she was now. And I asked her if she could tell me in Spanish. And we all counted together. And then we went to sing Happy Birthday in Spanish.

And everything would have been fabulous but for one problem: Another child in class was celebrating her half birthday on the same day. She was getting a special treat and/or mini party at home, and she was insistent that we also honor her special day, sing to her, and talk to her about special she was on this day.

Honestly, it was funny, sad, and obnoxious all at once. I couldn’t be angry with the half birthday child; she didn’t come up with all these ideas on her own. But the net effect was to put a damper on another child’s excitement, so I was annoyed.

I’m not sure where Simon suddenly got the idea that half birthdays were so important, but I am cautiously optimistic that my thoroughly unenthused monotone about the special day put a damper on any enthusiasm he might have. Permanently I hope. He’s my child and my special snowflake, but no snowflake needs to be made to feel quite THAT special.

On and off the playing fields, brawn is not an option for Simon. What he’s learning is that he can use speed and agility to get his way in sports and quick-thinking elsewhere. I’m happy to see his skill set evolve, but have to admit I’m nervous about the fact that it can—and will—be used against me and Matt. It’s just a matter of when.

Here are a few examples of what I’m talking about:

Exhibit A: “The Dentist”

About two weeks ago, our favorite soccer team, Manchester City, played Barcelona in a European tournament game. Matt took the day off to watch it, and kick-off was in the early afternoon. Matt really wanted the entire family to go to a local pub and watch together, but the game started before school let out.

Simon heard this and had a solution: “Just tell school I have a dentist appointment and come get me early.” I am most disturbed here by the fact that his plan would have worked had I been willing.

Note to future self and employers: Be skeptical of any family commitment Simon gets out of because of a medical appointment.

Exhibit B: Size Matters

Last week, on the heels of a major snow storm and just after the completion of two large-ish school projects, Simon was assigned a book bag project. Students were to collect items that represented their favorite book, place them in a brown bag, and share with the class. We don’t have a lot of tchotchkes in the house, so I had no idea how most of Simon’s favorite books could be illustrated. Nor is he the kind of kid who could just draw the items.

It occurred to me that one book, The Borrowers, was perfect for the project as it told the story of tiny people who live in hidden places in human houses and survive by “borrowing” small items humans don’t miss. We could toss one thimble (cup), one spool of thread (table), one hat pin (climbing device), one postage stamp (art for the walls), and one chess piece (sculpture) in the bag, represent the story well, and be done with it. All that was required was to tell a tiny white lie about how much Simon liked the book, because in reality he loved the idea of the book but found its execution boring. As did I.

Perhaps this planted a seed. Because the day he gave his presentation, he had the following story to tell:

“Oh mama. I have to tell you something, but want it to be our secret. Today during our brown bag book projects, everyone else had their book in the bag, too. I thought maybe we were supposed to, but I didn’t. After a few people went, I thought ‘Oh no, Simon, you better think of something quick.’ So when they got to me, I told the little white lie that my book was a hard-back and too big to fit in the bag.”

Well done!?

Note to future Simon: You may want to investigate which high school and/or college excuses are over-used. Every printer can’t break down the night before a deadline.

Exhibit C: Social Anxiety

Last week we hit the ice cream shop after soccer practice. It was full of families, and one young boy wandered up to us to talk and show off his huge ice-cream cone. The boy stood a little too close, waited a little too long to speak, was a little too loud, and dropped off at odd junctures. We strongly suspect he was on the autistic spectrum, something Matt and I are better equipped to handle than Simon, especially if we don’t have time to prepare him beforehand.

The boy approached all three of us the first time, and Matt did most of the talking. The second time the boy approached Simon at the water fountain. We weren’t right beside him, and he looked confused and a little uncomfortable. I watched as he listened to the boy, made a comment about his ice cream cone, and then said, “I’m sorry, I have to go now” while making a beeline for us.” Honestly, I thought he handled it pretty well, and we had a nice chat in the car afterwards.

Not to future Simon: As an introvert, you will want to have a handful of “escape clauses” ready for every large social event. Before attending any graduation party, wedding, Bar Mitzvah, et al, think of a few and have them at the ready. Good luck!

And that would be because today, for the first time over an extended period of time, I HAD to sound like my mother in order to discipline a child. Simon is sufficiently compliant that I rarely if ever have to invoke what I think of as “the wrath of Rita” (hereafter WoR). To be fair, I didn’t get much of that myself growing up. But my brothers sure did, and I remember what it sounded like. Nor do my preschoolers get exposed to the WoR, as for the most part it would be developmentally inappropriate.

But with a group of misbehaving second-graders? Bring it! Wednesday I brought it to math circle, where I work with a group of above-grade-level kids to enrich the curriculum. The current unit is on geometry, and the kids are learning the very beginnings of fractions. When I last saw them two weeks ago, most were struggling to visualize fractions and therefore couldn’t manipulate them at all. I made some progress with them, but was excited to return with better visuals.

So this morning I dragged out Simon’s old Geomag toys, which I thought were perfect for the task at hand, and headed over to school. I expect kids to be chatty at 2:00 p.m, and I understand that super-bright kids who already understand things might be antsy. I was ready, willing, and able to deal with normal 7-and-8-year-old talkativeness and restlessness. What I was not ready for was straight-up rule defying and being ignored. And unfortunately, one child in particular refused to not talk out of turn, to not touch my supplies, to not make spitting noises, and to not roll around outside of circle.

Rita, however, was well prepared for the situation, so I channeled her. Here’s a sampling of what the worst offender heard:

“Really? I have three-year-olds who listen better than this. Are you a three-year-old?”

“What part of ‘don’t do that’ do you not understand?”

“I’ve just about had it with you.”

“Do you want to explain why your hands are in my bag without my permission? I didn’t think so.”

And on, and on, and on. With accompanying death stares and raised eyebrows.

After our session was over, I chatted with the teacher, whose look and expression conveyed a combination of “Oh honey, I deal with this every day” and “At least one person now understands my pain”. Then she let something interesting slip. This student has accumulated a huge number of tardies this year because his/her parents cannot get him/her (name and sex hidden to protect the guilty) to get dressed on time in the morning.

“What!?” I shrieked. “What do you mean they can’t get him/her to get dressed on time?”

“The parent tells me, ‘We can’t make him/her put his/her clothes on.'”

Gobsmacked, it was once again Rita who replied. “The hell they can’t! Who’s in charge in that house anyway?”

“I think we know who’s in charge. And I don’t understand it, because I wasn’t raised that way and I didn’t bring up my own children that way.”*

“If they can’t control him/her now, God help them when he’s/she’s a teenager. Idiots.” Rita continued: “It’s pretty simple. You say, ‘I’m going to count to 3, and if you aren’t putting your clothes on by the time I get to 3, I’m going to help you. And TRUST ME WHEN I TELL YOU that you will be much happier if you do it yourself. Do you understand me?”

The teacher was laughing at this point. Our backgrounds are completely different when it comes to race, religion, and geographic origin. She’s also 15 years my senior, whereas I’m a close demographic match to and neighbors of the parents of the misbehaving child. Which just goes to show you that superficial similarities are just that. The other moral of the day is that while many of us fear turning into our mothers, it can come in quite handy. I’ll be back in class next week, and I’ll be bringing the WoR with me just in case.

*Simon’s teacher is in her late 50s/early 60s, comes from a small town, and is African-American. I’m going to guess that her own upbringing and the way she disciplined her children can best be described as “old school”.

Age 10 is totally different though, right?

I hope so. Because there is a boy in Simon’s tennis group this time out who is working my last nerve. I first met Jon* at Simon’s 10 and under tennis tournament last June, where he immediately announced that he had won a tournament before. I didn’t love that, but I might have the child who bragged similarly, so I didn’t think too much about it.

Then he showed up for a week or two in one of Simon’s tennis clinics last fall, where he was a pretty bad sport. As I’ve explained before, Goldsteins are traditionally gracious winners and bad losers. Whitworths, on the other hand, are traditionally awful winners and equally bad losers in a way that counter-intuitively makes them pretty gracious at both. Which is to say, they gloat in victory, despair in loss, and clearly aren’t serious about either. It’s just part of the game.

Simon threads the middle. In public among his peers, he’s wonderful; alone with me and Matt, he can melt down with the worst of them. That tells me that he has a serious competitive fire in his belly, but cares enough about being polite and well liked that he can hold it together in public.

This kid, though? Jon? He is THE WORST. He pumps his fists and gloats every time he wins a point and cries and misbehaves every time he loses. And by cry, I mean literally cry: open mouth, wailing, the whole ugly shebang. Then he gets angry and hits balls over to other courts or kicks them into corners. If a coach reprimands him, he acts out even worse.

So of course, this session he’s in Simon’s group every week for the full 6-week run. Ugh. Ugh. Ugh. The other kids are a competitive, fun, and sportsmanship minded group. They cheer in victory, fake wail in defeat, high-five each other, and generally bring out the best in each other with regard to tennis and social skills.

This past Sunday was a particularly rough session for Jon. I asked Simon what he made of the situation afterwards, and his answers were illuminating.

“What would you say to Jon if you could when he acts out?”

“I’d say, ‘Dude, you’re 10. You should be over this already.'”

“Does it ruin the fun at all for the rest of you?”

“Oh yeah. Sometimes we just give each other the look that says, ‘Maybe we should just let him win so he’ll not cry and we can go on with the game.'”

“Would you actually do that? Let him win?”

“Oh heck no! We just think about it and know it’d be easier.”

“Does Jon have any friends in the group?”

“No. He used to. But then everyone saw how he was, and now he doesn’t.”

Out of the mouths of babes, eh?

Here’s where I’ve landed on this. I think judging and disliking the child is probably a poor and presumptuous response. It’s certainly unkind. I don’t know if Jon has school issues, personality/brain wiring issues, family issues, or medical issues. I’m a grown-up and should have compassion.

On the other hand, his behavior is making things less fun for the five other kids out there, none of whom display the same poor sportsmanship and most of whom are younger. Given Jon’s position as the stand-out poor sport, I think group tennis is not the right place for him now. Someone, preferably his mother, needs to explain to Jon that if he cannot behave better in tennis clinics, he’ll have to stop taking them. There needs to be repercussions and limits, for his sake as well as that of the other kids.

I’m not holding my breath for that happen though, and I’m not sure how long wisdom and compassion on my end is going to hold out.

*Name changed.

• How to use addition to solve a problem;
• How to use multiplication to solve a problem;
• How to combine the two in to solve a multi-step problem.

Instead, he learned this:

• It’s hard to do math after soccer practice when it’s late and you are tired;
• Math is doubly hard when you didn’t eat enough dinner;
• Math is the absolute worst when the person who is supposed to helping you behaves poorly.

In case I am being too subtle here, let me just state baldly that I was a beast last night.

Here’s a sample problem we struggled with: Sally wants to buy two books for $5 each, another for $8, and a third for $4. She has $18 saved up. How much more money does she need to buy the books? Simon quickly answers “$4″

“Great,” I say. “Show me your work.”

“Five times 2 is 10; 10 + 8 + 4 is 22. She needs $4 more dollars.”

“Yes, but what is the final math sentence you did in your head to get that answer?”

“22-4=18.”

“No, 4 is the answer. You had the 22, you had the 18, you figured out the 4. What was the equation?”

“18 + 4 = 22?”

“Simon, are you even listening to me? Four is the answer. NOW MAKE A SENTENCE WHERE YOU HAVE 22 AND 18 AND COME UP WITH 4?”

Perhaps this doesn’t sound so bad. Let me assure you it was bad; monotone, loud, and audibly irritated. What’s more, I had sounded the same or worse on the proceeding 2 questions, where he misread one problem and erroneously added answers together for two different questions in another. For whatever reason, all of Simon’s math sense flew out of his brain last night, he couldn’t get anything right, and I was completely irritated at and out of patience with him.

There were tears, and he didn’t want me to be the one to tuck him in last night. So while Matt took care of bedtime duty, I washed up the dishes and faced up to some home truths. Namely:

• I would never have treated another student like I did Simon;
• I would be angry at any teacher who talked to him the way I did;
• I would have been devastated myself if someone had treated me the same way I did him.
• It was late and he was tired. I had set him up to fail.

Oof. Today we had to finish the sheet as part of Simon’s homework. This time we did it soon after coming home from school, and today he didn’t have soccer practice. Before we ever started, I sat him down, apologized for how I treated him last night, and promised that tonight I would be his helper and give him the patience and respect he deserves.

We were set up for success from the beginning, and indeed Simon knocked out the problems with ease and with no help needed from me. Today he learned how to set up and solve multi-step problems, how to combine addition and multiplication in the same problem, and that sometimes adults behave poorly and have to apologize themselves. Somehow, I think that last lesson might be the most important one of all.

No, scratch that, the melt-down was owing to the fact that he couldn’t get the drum beat right fast enough. Which is ALSO ironic, because only four days prior to this collapse, I marveled at Simon’s patience and equanimity as he struggled to master a drum beat in class. “Wow,” thought to myself, “he’s really learned to give himself time and not freak out if he fails to achieve immediate mastery in something.”

Fast forward to Wednesday night, when I arrived home from pilates to the sounds of howling and wailing from the basement. This went on for some time, punctuated by drumming, until at last Simon emerged from the basement with red-rimmed and puffy eyes. He barely held it together to talk to me, staggered upstairs, and at one point crawled under his bed to mope/weep/hide/whatever.

Silly me, I assumed that he failed to perform the drum beat in question. But Matt would soon inform me that Simon had in fact pulled it off at the end, an accomplishment that did nothing to temper his fit. The issue, of course, is that Simon’s limbic system—the part of your brain involved in the fight-or-flight reflex—was so worked up that it could not, would not, listen to the part of his brain that involves logic, language, or reason.

I tried helping him breathe slowly with mixed results. I tried talking to him with no real results. In the end, we just had to wait him out, get him into bed, and accept that our night took an unfortunate U-turn at around 7:15 p.m.

But before he fell asleep, I had a little chat with him about the night’s events, wherein I explained that the part of the brain that makes you feel scared, angry, and hurt doesn’t always listen to the rest of your brain. That means you can still feel scared, angry, or hurt long after the scary thing is gone, the person who angered you has apologized, and the hurt should be over. Sometimes this delay—called the limbic lag—is short and you hardly notice it. Other times it is so extreme that the thinking part of your brain decides something must still be terribly, terribly wrong if you still feel so bad and then goes looking for reasons.

That limbic lag is the reasons couples resort to “kitchen sink” arguments every bit as much as 8-year-olds hide under their beds in frustration over something. The partner has apologized and the drum beat has been performed, but a sufficiently stimulated limbic system is slow to listen, and sometimes that means the partner looks for other reasons to be angry and the 8-year-old forgets he ever liked drumming.

Simon is a little young for explanations like this, but it seems reasonable to plant a seed, much as I did the first time I caught him engaging in catastrophic thinking. I was in my mid 20s before I learned about the latter and mid-30s before I discovered the limbic lag. Earlier knowledge of either could have been a huge tool for coping with stress and arguments as an older child or young adult. Here’s to hoping Simon can begin using these tools a little earlier.