Kid Amnesiac

Two steps forward and one step back, I’m afraid.

Our first area of growing independence is, as I just wrote, the preschool drop-off. Last week, on Wednesday if I remember correctly, I needed to go inside KIP. Simon wanted to walk up alone. I continued to explain to him that I had to go to the office, and he kept insisting that he wanted to walk up alone.

So I finally resorted to a gambit I use every now and again in other situations to great effect. I told him I wasn’t going to argue any more, that I had to go inside, and that if he wasn’t OK with that I’d go up alone and he could stay in the car. At which point I shut the door on his side of the car and turned as though to walk away.

Normally, I’d turn around two seconds later and find a slightly upset, newly compliant child. That day, I turned around and found a child sobbing into his hands. Despite reassurances and apologies, he continued to sob as I picked him up, as I carried him from the parking lot to the door, and as he high-fived Shary (the director) on the way in. He recovered enough for me help him with his back-pack, give him a kiss, and let him walk upstairs on his own.

I felt like the worst mother ever. Here’s what Matt had to say:

“Next time, just let him off in the car-pool lane, then go park and come in on your own. He’ll be heading up the steps by then.”

Why didn’t I think of that? Is it because I’m also the stupidest mother ever?

I used this technique Thursday and Friday, and the joy on Simon’s face as he scampered up the ramp to the back door, high-fived Shary, and disappeared inside mainly served to make me feel worse about my ill considered and mean Wednesday stunt. I’m better than that—or at least I try to be.

Having restored my son’s confidence in school independence, I now have to figure out a way to have it survive a potty-training set-back.

Some time ago, Matt and I realized that Simon stayed dry overnight most of the time. When he didn’t, it was usually because he argued with us about going last thing at night and again first thing in the morning. Through a series of encouragements and small bribes (Skittles), we got him to stay dry five nights in a row, at which point we made a HUGE deal about putting him to bed in big-boy underwear and not buying any more pull-ups.

He did great for the first week. His first set-back came randomly in the second week. But it was the first, so we discussed and moved on. The second set-back came the night Matt forgot to have him go before bed-time. We figured we owned that one. The third set-back came from a nightmare at around 3:00 a.m. He awoke shrieking and scared, so we placed the blame on fear. The fourth set-back came the night we let him have a pretty big cup of lemonade after 7:00 p.m. Even going to the bathroom before bed, it still left too much in his bladder for too long.

And last night’s set-back, the fifth in three weeks, came for no reason that we can determine. It’s perfectly normal for a boy Simon’s age to need pull-ups overnight, so I’m not worried at all vis-à-vis development. My worry is that I have to tell my little boy that he’s has to go back to pull-ups. I don’t want to, but I can’t keep changing his sheets and being up half the night a few nights a week. We’re already going through a bout of interrupted sleep; I don’t feel like adding to it.

How do I do this without hurting his feelings or taking away his sense of accomplishment? I’m not sure. My best strategy so far, besides telling him that this is normal and that we’ll try again later this spring, is to pick a new task for him and offer praise and small treats for his taking it on. Perhaps something like taking his dishes to the kitchen sink or putting his own laundry in the hamper. I know he can do these things, and I know I’m desperate to find a way to keep his sense of independence and accomplishment from backsliding.

You can tell the kids talked about Valentine’s Day last week at school. Simon, already a very affectionate boy, was in love overdrive. “I sure do love you, Mommy!” he’d randomly offer. My hand was taken and kissed multiple times a day. I got hugs all the time. He wanted to snuggle extra long every night. And every day he told me that he was my Valentine, my little bunny, and my sweet boy.

But all love has its limits, and for Simon, that limit is the threshold at KIP. Whereas once I walked him through the lobby, down the hall past the kitchen, up the stairs to the school, and into his room, I am now prohibited to accompany him past the front door. If he had his druthers, I’d never get out of the car.

Which is what happens on Tuesdays and Thursdays, when I have to drop Simon off in the carpool lane because Agotich is with me. Whereas this was once a cause of stress (“Who will walk me up today, Mommy?” he’d ask every morning), it is now a point of pride. Now that he knows he can walk up alone, it’s the only way he wants to go. Nor does he want to walk up with another KIP kid, parent, or teacher; these are strictly solo missions.

It’s gotten to the point that when I need to go into the school to check in on the computer lab, sign checks, or tell his teachers something, I have to wait until Simon has gone on his merry way and then go down a different hall and up a separate staircase that leads to the opposite end of the second floor. A part of me thinks I should call shenanigans and insist Simon let me walk up sometimes. I’m in charge, right? But the much greater part of me is happy to see this independent streak emerge and is willing to indulge it if it boosts his confidence.

One of Simon’s best Christmas presents this year was a kids’ air hockey table from his Grandma and Papaw. We play multiple games every day, and we both have a blast. We love it so much, in fact, that it is still sitting upstairs, placed behind our couch as though it were a sofa table. Once it’s warmer out, I’ll move it downstairs. Probably.

Here’s how I scored on Simon in those very first days: I used my mallet to send the puck across the table. Pretty much any attempt, no matter how feeble, succeeded, so I pulled back, did little/nothing, and let him win a few games to build his confidence. Only a 4-year-old would have fallen for it.

So what about a month ago? How did I score on him then? Sometimes, is the answer, and with restrictions in place. Matt and I decided to forbid defense in the half-moon goal area and offence beyond the midcourt line. If we played with those restrictions in place, Simon won about half the time, building up his skills and confidence.

And now? Kiddo makes me work for it. The occasional bank shot goes in. But most often, I have to draw him into a skirmish at the center line and then, once he’s distracted, strike hard at his weak right side. The result of which is that I win about 40% of our games.

He’s gotten really good! And the best part is that I can crow over good shots whenever I want (channeling my Whitworth-by-marriage status), because soon enough Simon will have one to crow over on his own. More than once this week, when Simon and I had lots of time together owing to Matt’s being in Phoenix for work, I momentarily forget that the fierce competitor across the table from me was my four-year-old son.

Simon isn’t reading, but he’s sure trying to. For several months now, he’s wanted to know what every word starts with. Aside from the expected C vs. K, C vs. S, and G vs. J confusion, he’s been doing very well. Oh, and the totally unexpected (to me) but understandable confusion that words like “wa, wa, water” don’t start with “Y” (say that letter out loud, and you’ll understand if you didn’t before).

In the beginning, around August, he’d choose select words—Simon! Mommy!—to experiment with, and throw in the odd sign—S-T-O-P—on occasion. At the next phase, he began to investigate everything. That’s when we’d have exchanges like this:

“Are you ready to lie down now?”

“‘L’ is for ‘lie down’.”

Starting in November, he made a few forays into spelling an entire word, doing pretty well with consonants and less so with vowels. And now, he is simply enamored of the written word. His favorite shows have shifted from Curious George and The Cat in the Hat to Super Why (a reading show) and Word Girl. Trips to the store feature him pointing to signs and saying things like “S-T-A-P-L-E-S: Staples!” Bed-time reading every night includes Simon choosing select words to spell out, sound out, and attempt to put together.

For the most part, he can’t do it. I’ll ask him to sound out each letter in word, say “fire” and get this:

“Fu, fu, fu. Ay, ay, ay. Ru, ru, ru.”

But if ask him how these sounds go together, I get a frustrated and/or blank stare in return.

Once or twice, though, he’s gotten it. “he, he, he, ee, ee, ee” became “he” pretty easily. And we may have managed a “Sam” or “am” a couple of times, though it’s more likely he’s just memorized the words on a given page or is taking a gestalt approach. I think it’s very interesting that he can go from word to letters, but not the other way around; I wish I understood the neuroscience behind that.

Foundation laid, now we wait for the connections to be made. How long it will take, I couldn’t tell you. A few months? A whole year? Your guess is as good as mine, better if you have much experience with children.

What I do know is that Mama needs to get a hold of herself, pronto. I have prided myself on not being that mother, the one who pushes her kid, sees her child as her personal masterpiece, and takes pride in her child’s accomplishments as though they were her own. I am not that mother! I do not push! Simon can learn to read at six, as I did, and do just fine.

It’s just that he’s so very, very close, and it’s so utterly, totally amazing to watch. And the pull, therefore, is so irresistible to coach and coax and help, and encourage, and—okay I’ll just say it, to push—a teeny tiny bit to get him over the hump and into the wondrous world of the written word.

Except that makes me that mother. The one who anxiously asks me at regular intervals what Simon can or can’t do, trying hard to look casual when her face betrays an anxiety that her kid might not be able to do everything every other kid can do. Or heaven forbid the ridiculous ones on TV commercials teaching their babies to “read”.

And really, I think I’d rather have Simon not read until he’s seven than be that mother. Plus, whatever advances he may be making in reading are more than made up for by his considerable lag in writing. Between being a boy, being a lefty, and being mine (and Ivan’s* by extension), Simon is (predictably) well on his way to a future of atrocious penmanship.

*Poor Dad. First I blame him for my directional challenges, and now this. But it’s true! We always attributed Dad’s awful handwriting to being a lefty born at a time when they tried to convert you to right-handedness. This excuse held up pretty well until I came along: a right-handed girl whose equally awful handwriting bears the same quirks as my Dad’s. So as to not appear overly negative I will say that when Simon pulls over his trike to admire flowers, tells me that Sophie’s pink mittens are beautiful, or gets lost in the museum galleries on his way to Art Sparks, I see my Dad’s life-long appreciation for visual beauty.