Kid Amnesiac

This is Simon’s sixth week of doing camp of some sort. To date, he’s attended one week of soccer camp, two weeks of tennis camp, one week of forest camp at Locust Grove (a historical estate in a pastoral setting where Louisville’s founder once lived), and one week of zoo camp. Today is the third day of the second week of zoo camp.

It’s not going well. Simon liked zoo camp last summer, with his only complaint being that “it wasn’t hard enough.” That’s Simon speak for something not being as interesting or challenging as he had hoped. Last summer he was in with children who were 4 and 5, whereas this summer he is grouped with rising first and second graders. When I made summer plans, I assumed that being bumped up an age group would bring more sophistication or academic rigor to the proceedings.

No dice. After the first week, which he attended with his old preschool friend Gabrielle, he told me that zoo camp was “still too easy.” Despite this disappointment, he had a great time with Gabrielle and was happy when I dropped him off and picked him up every day. This week his only friend is a shy girl from his kindergarten class who only wants to talk to the counselor. The remaining girls are naturally pairing off with each other, and the boys are mostly younger and wild.

That would be slapping, pushing, arm-yanking, and pinching wild. This is a subset of boys that seems to be present almost everywhere and that gives Simon—and me—fits. We most recently encountered this at baseball, where the boy next to Simon in batting order couldn’t keep his hands to himself. He was constantly yanking on Simon, taking Simon’s hat off and rubbing his head, or trying to lift him off the ground. Because I was semi-officially helping with the team, I did my best to advise Simon how to stand his ground and redirect the other boy. When the soft approach failed, and it failed spectacularly, I resorted to yelling. By the end of the season I had developed a flat-out dislike for the other child and was glad to be rid of him.

Back to zoo camp. Simon didn’t want to go to camp this morning. I gave him a pep talk in the car, the effects of which lasted about 10 minutes. When we arrived for morning sign-in, I saw three boys, all of whom appeared to be younger than Simon, slapping and grabbing each other. This is their idea of fun. This is why Simon tells me he has no friends in zoo camp. Scratch that. This is why Simon legitimately doesn’t have friends in zoo camp. In his place, neither would I.

Once I got home, I decided it was time for parental intervention and called the camp office. They offered to move Simon to another group, but he demurred when approached. I think the change was too sudden for him and he felt ambushed. We’ll talk again tonight and find out if he’s made his peace with the blue elephants or if he’d like to join green elephants tomorrow.

Regardless, this week at zoo camp will be his last. It’s just not a good fit for him. Simon’s love of nature, animals, and learning should have made zoo camp a slam dunk. But here the most interesting animals are for obvious reasons viewed at a distance, the nature has a paved path running through it, and a lot of the activity takes place in crowded and loud spaces.

The 20-kids to 55-acres ratio of Locust Grove felt just right. The physicality of soccer and tennis is the variety that he prefers. And he’s happier when the plants and animals being studied are in their natural environment with few additional amenities. Snack bar: good. Carousel and water park: bad.

The final issue is age. At Locust Grove Simon was with 7-9-year-olds and spent most of his time with the 8 and up crowd. Soccer was a another mixed-age affair; his best friend for the week was soccer phenom Lucille, who turned 8 the week after camp. At tennis camp there were no boys his age, and he was perfectly happy to play and chat with the older crew.

I’m not sure if the “handsy” boys just don’t go to these other camps or if they age out of the behavior, but Simon never seems to encounter the pushing/yanking problems when he’s with them. Which means that when I’m planning Simon’s 2014 summer, I’ll be focusing on sports-specific camps, smaller camps, and camps where Simon is on the young end of the age spectrum.

Having resolved that, the next issue to tackle is the next two days. The jury is out as to whether Simon stays in his group or makes a move. The third option, one I might haul out for Friday, is to ditch camp altogether and head out to Bernheim Forest or Jefferson Memorial Forest for the day. Because the only thing sillier than paying for camp and not going is forcing a six-year-old to go to a camp where he’s not happy and not learning anything.

Some months or even years ago, our friend Barry explained how some young athletes get overly hyped early in their career, leaving them to surprise or disappoint later. The phenomenon most often occurs in coachable children with some natural ability or talent. These kids can run, kick, hit, or throw, but what really sets them apart in their youth is that they care, pay attention, practice, and learn.

This certainly describes Simon. He’s usually one of the better soccer players on any team he plays on, being especially good at passing. He’s also got a good swing in baseball and a decent shot in basketball. But where potential talent really shows up is in tennis. Last year, when he was 5 1/2 and did a week of camp, his coach left him with notes about use of spin, told him his aim on the volley was “spectacular”, and praised his “fluid” motions, “which are key to being an amazing performer.” That was pretty exciting to read. Then, at the end she noted that “You listen so well.” Which made me wonder: talent or listening skills?

This summer, at the end of his first week of tennis camp, his coach Dave came to find me after the first day.

“Do you know what an amazing player your son is?” he asked me.

“Uh, no. I think he’s probably pretty good, but I’m so awful myself that I have no frame of reference.”

“Well he’s really amazing. I can’t believe he’s only had one week of camp here. He’s my best rallyer.”

Wow! Dave’s notes gushed. According to him, Simon’s backhand could be a “real weapon”, his strokes are “pretty and natural” and his comments included advice on adding lots of top spin and adding slice to his powerful serve and other tennis lingo I don’t understand myself. Dave wrote that he was “blown away by your skill this week” and that Simon has “a great future in tennis.” Then he sat me down with the Junior Development clinic flyer and circled the one he wants Simon to enroll in: Beginner/Advanced Beginner Ages 9-10.

Exciting right? A sign of real talent for sure. Unless it’s the attention span again. Because last week Simon returned for one more camp session. Dave was there, and he grabbed Simon immediately and put him in with the advanced 8-9-year-old group along with Coach Matt and Coach Joe. Simon was the youngest and shortest kid out there, and in his notes Coach Joe praised him for “holding your own against all the bigger kids” and wrote that “No doubt you’re going to be a great tennis player.”

Just about the time it sounds like you’ve got a little phenom on your hands, he adds this: “You worked hard all week, really listen, and had a great attitude.” There’s that coachability again. Whenever I hear comments like this, I hear Barry’s voice in my head and caution myself against getting too excited. One day those attention-challenged boys are going to start to listen, and at that point the truly talented will be sorted out from the merely hard working and compliant.

Given Simon’s genetic inheritance, it seems unlikely he’ll end up being the next big thing. Then again, given my portion of his genetic inheritance, it’s nothing short of a miracle that he can hit the ball at all. Thankfully, our life goals for Simon never included his being a sports star, so our hearts will not be broken when other kids break away. Still, I have to sheepishly admit that it’s been fun—a lot of fun—having multiple coaches gush over Simon’s on-court ability.

In my infinite wisdom, I took Simon to the pool Thursday at 3:35. We reached the pool gate just at 4:00, a time carefully calibrated to coincide with the first bolt of lightening to arrive as part of a forecast thunderstorm. Next time maybe I’ll remember to check the weather before heading out.

So there we stood, outside the gates of the JCC, all ready to play and and with our plans scuttled.

“Wanna go inside and see if the basketball court is open?” I suggested.

“Yeah, let’s do that,” Simon said.

The gym was mostly empty. At one end, a group of 4-5 adult men were playing pickup basketball. At the other, a single 10- or 11-year-old boy was practicing his shots. Simon found a ball and moved over to where the boy was playing. For the next 45 minutes or so, a scene played out that I only barely understood.

The boys started out circling each other, but neither said a word. Older boy would take a shot, then dribble out to the periphery while Simon took his shot. Every once and a while they would line up shots at the same time, but always one or the other would nod and back off. If the older boy’s ball took a bounce off the rim or backboard that put the ball near Simon, he’d collect the ball and wordlessly pass it to the older boy. The older boy did the same. Neither ever bothered to ask or say thanks. As time went by, Simon started mirroring the older boy’s shots: close to the basket, from the free-throw line, corner shot, hook shot, whatever the (good) older boy tried, Simon tried too.

I kept waiting for one to talk to the other, but it didn’t happen until the very end. Finally, older boy was ready to leave the court. He picked up his ball, made eye contact with Simon, and turned to leave. Just before his back was completely turned, Simon said, “You’ve got some really nice shots.” At which point the older boy turned his head, nodded, and replied, “Thanks. You too for someone your age.”

And that was that. Nearly an hour of play that included exactly 13 words of conversation. This must be some boy code–or guy at the gym code. I could easily picture two older boys or grown men doing this, but could never imagine girls doing the same. But the thing that really got me was that Simon seemed to intuitively understand the code and abided by the on-court protocol without help. It was one of those moments when, barring his height and success rate, I could easily imagine him a decade hence.

Now is the time when I really wish I had more of a neuroscience background, because the memory of children—specifically my child—is starting to blow me away.

I first began to notice Simon’s excellent recall when he started describing soccer moves from games and years past.

“You mean like when John Terry made an own goal against Arsenal?”

As that happened in 2003 or so, I do not. Simon saw it on a highlight reel, though, and he’s never going to forget.

Or how about

” . . . like when Giles Barnes left the Sunderland defense in a twist!”

This one came from an episode of 500 Greatest Goals, and no, I don’t remember it, either.

Then towards the end of the school year I began noticing that Simon remembered a few words in Hebrew from preschool, quite a few Spanish words, and that he was comparing them to the Chinese vocabulary he was picking up.

My observation of his memory hit a climax this past week. I read something to him, and a day or so later he proceeded to recite it back to me verbatim. On Friday we finished a game of 10 Days in Europe, a geography strategy game, and I decided to talk a little about the countries on the board, beginning with their population. Each country card has the nation’s capital and population written on it, so I sorted them into piles by the million: > 100 million, 80-90 million, 70-79 million, and so forth all the way down to < million. Then we looked at the piles and briefly discussed.

Last night (Sunday), right before bed, we played a quick game. Afterwards, I asked Simon a few questions just for the heck of it:

“Which country in your trip has the most people?” [The game ends when you can link 10 days together, which may include as few as 5 or as many as 10 different countries.]

“Germany.”

“That’s right. How many people?”

“Over 80 million.”

“OK. So which country in all of Europe has the most people in it?”

“Russia.”

“Yup. How many people? Do you remember?”

“Um, 140 million?”

“I don’t remember. That seems high, so let’s look it up. Yup, 140 million.”

“Which country on your trip has the fewest people?”

“Portugal. It has 10 million. [correct again]”

“Does it? It does! OK, hot shot, which country in all of Europe has the fewest people?”

“Iceland. It doesn’t even have a million. Luxembourg and Montenegro don’t have a million people, either.”

He was right! Neither do Andorra, San Marino, or the other micro-states, but they aren’t on the game board. For the record, he did miss a few. He had Italy at 77 million when it’s in the 50s, and he had Denmark as the most populous Scandinavian country when that honor goes to Sweden. But the sheer number he got right blew me away. He remembered as many or more than I did, and I have a heck of a lot more context to guess which countries are full and which are empty.

And if you are wondering what the thing was I read to him that he could recite verbatim, perhaps now is the time to confess that my 43-year-old brain cannot remember! It has neither the capacity nor elasticity that his does. But I can remember what it was like to have vast and easy recall, and I’m delighted that he’ll have this tool in his box for school.

I’ve spent the past year or so wondering when I’d feel that my child had totally, utterly outclassed me. Well, wonder no more: that time has arrived. I’ve still got a lot to teach Simon, naturally, but the boy—at 6!—has lapped his mother when it comes to being well rounded.

The reason I’m thinking about this is that yesterday the child was on fire. His day began at the Louisville Tennis Club (where, fyi, I ran into an old KIP friend of Simon’s and had a lovely chat with a woman who shares my surname), where he was bumped up to an older group. Whereas Monday he played with 5- and 6-year-olds with minor grumbling, Tuesday he played with 7- and 8-year-olds. This is a happier spot for him, as Simon would rather be a small fish in a big pond than vice versa. As it happens, he won the “player of the day” award for winning some contest or other and/or chasing down the longest volleys.

He capped off this success by going to Putt-Putt with my mom, where he sunk a hole-in-one on the 18th, earning a free game. He then went on to convince my almost 74-year-old mother to go out and play soccer with him. Simon has a very good Bubbie, a Bubbie who is probably getting pretty fit from all the soccer her grandson foists on her.

Next up Simon came home, ate dinner, and watched Jeopardy, where he knew one of the questions. “What is Chitty-Chitty Bang Bang?” He’s been watching for a few weeks now, but this was the first time he could call out an answer. It was an exciting moment for him. After this bit of down time, he went downstairs and played the longest sustained drum beat I’ve ever heard. Matt would have to explain what exactly he was doing, but it involved choosing particular beats and/or patterns and then matching them to fills. He was quite literally rocking out, and it sounded like real drumming to me for the first time ever.

Finally, we let him play just one little game of Ten Days in Europe (a strategy game with a geography twist to it) before bed, and for the first time ever he beat us both and needed very little help to do so.

Not all days can be like this, of course. Today was unusually successful. But the fact remains that at the tender age of six and a half, Simon is proving himself to be not only a good student, but also a decent athlete and musician. I’m really proud of him, and more than a little humbled.