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Up ’til this year, Simon has had a knack for choosing friends he’s not completely compatible with, while I’ve (largely fruitlessly) attempted to steer him in other directions. For three of his four years in preschool, he most loved a couple of boys who were much rowdier than he was. One of these boys was also incredibly sweet and had been with him since before they turned two. I understood, supported, and enjoyed that friendship, even as I had to be careful about what activities to choose for play-dates. The other boy, however, wasn’t as sweet, and that friendship had its ups and downs where Simon’s well being was concerned.

Meanwhile, there was a another boy, Griffen, who was an excellent match for Simon. A fact that, ironically, it took the end of preschool for Simon to fully appreciate. I spent years trying to push him in Griffen’s direction, only for the friendship to fully blossom after they went to separate schools for kindergarten. Better late than never I suppose.

Last year, too, Simon needed some help on the friends front when he encountered a friend who wasn’t always very nice to him. He also struggled to find boys who wanted to play the same way he did, with many of his peers wanting to run, chase, and tackle, and Simon wanting to play in a more organized fashion. At the end of kindergarten, Simon had one true best friend and a bunch of friendly acquaintances.

This year, the peer relations are much easier. Simon has identified a core group of nearly perfectly behaved, academically achieving, quiet kids, and he is sticking with them. These are the kids whose behavior color charts are only on the positive side, who compete with each other on online reading and math games, who are always nice to each other, and who are almost certainly destined to end up at the district’s most competitive high school.

Even better, Simon has met two lovely Brandeis children at soccer and tennis. Mia is a smart, sporty, and sweet third grader who plays on Simon’s soccer team; and Salil is a smart, sporty, silly (in a good way), and sweet third grader who plays tennis with Simon. These two are such great role models that I find myself grateful to them for being willing to hang out with a younger child.

And of course, Simon’s best friend remains Caroline, with whom I don’t think he’s ever had a cross word. That friendship is now five years old and continues to amaze me. In fact, the other day when I was teasing Simon about how much he loves soccer, the only thing he’d admit to liking more than soccer—including his father and I!—was Caroline. “But, sssshhh,” he told me. “Don’t say anything. I don’t want to hurt soccer’s feelings.”

So this should be the year that I do nothing where peer relations are concerned, the year I sit back and enjoy stress-free socializing.

If only it were that easy. One of his friends from last year, a smart and energetic kid I’m genuinely fond of, is starting to become an issue. Specifically, he’s threatening to tell on Simon for things he hasn’t done, was asking for and/or taking his lemonade at lunch, and was doing some other things that bothered or frightened Simon. At the same time, this child was also sending Simon notes about getting together for play dates, making him a huge custom card for Valentine’s day, and generally trying to advance the friendship.

Simon feels stuck. On the one hand, he doesn’t like how X is treating him. On the other hand, he’s afraid of hurting X’s feelings and wants to be friends. And on the third hand (Third hand? I guess this is where the metaphor falls apart!), he’s genuinely afraid of getting in trouble for something he didn’t do.

The third part is easy. I’ve mostly convinced Simon that if a child with a reputation for telling tales accuses him of doing something he’s never done and that is out of character for him, that the teacher is not going to punish him. He’s still anxious about this but almost believes me. I’ve also mostly convinced him that if X says or does something against class rules, he needs to say “no” and then ask for help from a grown-up if X doesn’t listen.That part is a little trickier.

The middle part is trickiest of all. I am nearly certain that Simon wants to be friends with X. I am absolutely certain that X wants to be friends with Simon, quite possibly more than anyone else in the class. The only way I see out of this is for Simon to coach X and learn to say things like “I don’t like it when you do/say that”, or “friends don’t do/say that to each other”, or even “if you want to be friends with me, you can’t do/say that.”

It’s a tall order for anyone, especially a 7-year-old. But if he can pull it off, I think it might be a win-win for everyone involved. That’s one mighty big if, though.

 

This is a companion piece to an earlier entry about judging—and sometimes finding wanting—other people’s parenting.

The flip side of judging other people’s parenting is judging other people’s children. That sounds harsher than I mean it to. What I mean is that it is very difficult at times to maintain third-party neutrality and/or detachment when you are around other people’s children; sometimes you just want to jump in and act like their parent. This desire can take on many different guises.

At its best, I feel a surge of parental pride or sympathy when a child does something amazing or needs a sympathetic ear. Just last week this happened to me three times. Once when a child was made to feel very bad about the outcome of a soccer game. And more happily, twice when two different two-year-olds did something that delighted me.

The soccer example is a short enough story: A child comes off the field in tears, and I feel compelled to put an arm around her, give her a pep talk, and try to make the hurt go away. So let me tell you about one of the moments of displaced pride instead. Monday I was reviewing parts of the face in  class and reading a book wherein the title character, lobo, draws his own toothy face. “Me pongo mi ojo [I put on my eye]” the book reads. “Is one eye enough?” I asked the children. Some stared blankly, some nodded yes, a few nodded no, and one child, L—, called out “It is if he’s a cyclops!” I did not see that one coming! I was so simultaneously surprised, impressed, and delighted that it was all I could do not to pick her up and give her a big kiss. I contained myself, but I did run into the office afterwards to brag to the school director.

At its worst, my lack of detachment makes me haul out phrases much better suited to parents than to educators. There is a child I see pretty often who has massive verbal impulse control issues. Whatever the boy thinks comes straight out of his mouth regardless of whether it’s his turn or might hurt someone’s feelings. I can identify with the kid in some respects—I like to talk myself—and I’ve explained to him how I know how hard it is to keep an idea or answer inside when you are just bursting to share it. At times, however, I lose my patience with him. So it was recently when he was supposed to sit next to another child and balked.

“But I don’t want to sit next to _______. He’s ________ [I’m leaving the insult out.].”

Now, the second child does have some developmental tics, but he’s sweet and kind and understands when others are being mean to him. And I don’t tolerate mean well. So instead of offering mild correction and redirection a la “Let’s be careful to only use nice words. Is there something nice you can say about _____?” I got on his case and delivered a stern rebuke:

“What did I hear you say?” I yelled.

“But I don’t want to sit next to —–” Child X began to answer.

“I KNOW I’m not hearing you say something that mean. I KNOW you know better than to say something hurtful like that to a classmate. So right now, RIGHT NOW, you are going to say you’re sorry.”

“Soooooooooooory” came the petulant and utterly unconvincing response.

“Oh no. Let me explain how this is going to work. You are going to take a minute, think about how unkind what you just said was, and say you’re sorry like you mean it. And if you can’t make yourself feel that way and say the right thing, you are going to leave this room. What’s it going to be?”

Not my best moment as an educator/classroom assistant for sure. But you know what? I got his attention, and he straightened up real fast! I get the impression he could stand to hear things like this more often, so  maybe moving into mama mode wasn’t the end of the world.

Somewhere in the middle, my lack of detachment can lead to desire to indulgence. A boy in Simon’s class lost his father the Friday after Thanksgiving this year. It was freakish and sudden, and it left everyone at the school shaken. By all accounts, the man was a respected professional, doting family man, and talented chocolatier, photographer, and runner. His son is a quiet and studious child who worries even more than Simon about doing everything right in class. Much of first grade is about fostering academic independence. This child, again like Simon, was going to need gentle pushing to help him achieve that goal.

In light of his family’s tragedy, I’m finding it difficult to support that goal. I know it’s the right thing to do and that love and support are not the same as coddling, but every time I see this child I focus on him and look for ways to help.”You’re not sure what to do with your finished work? Here, honey, I’ll put it in in ‘completed work’ bin for you. You need a new pencil? Let me go sharpen one for you. You didn’t have time to finish something? Let me go ask the teacher what you should do.” And so on.

I’ve managed to hold back and rein it in, but it’s not easy for me. I think it’s a very, very good thing that I’m not his teacher and that I should keep a watchful eye on my tendency to get overly involved with other people’s children.

 

Busy Bodies

Thus far, this year has been notable for its snow days. It began with temperatures too low to return from winter break on the 6th and proceeded through the rest of January with cancellations due to snow and ice. February brought no improvement at all, the highlight of which must be the Valentine’s Day cancellation due to a forecast of snow and ice at dismissal time. As it happened, the bad weather and road conditions didn’t arrive until well after dinner time, but forecasting isn’t an exact science and the person making the call was no doubt haunted by images of kids sleeping at school in places like Atlanta.

The first snow day or two of the year is kind of fun. I skipped out on the preschool, Simon had a friend over, and  the days were filled with winter diversions and a sense of playing hooky. In contrast, the ninth snow day is a complete drag. There wasn’t any snow to play in, Matt took a half day so I could go to the preschool for a change, and hot cocoa and a trip to the coffee shop had long ago lost its sense of novelty.

There was also a huge amount of crabbiness to contend with. Simon and I are both out of our routines, and we are both suffering from it. On his part, since he’s not an avid reader, artist, or builder, bad weather days are accompanied by way too much television and the ensuing enervated and irritable state excessive television viewing begets. On my part, snow days mean missed days at the preschool, missed plans for my various volunteer jobs, missed housekeeping, missed runs, and missed pilates lessons. That, in turn, begets more screen time in general and more time watching everyone else live their fabulous lives on Facebook in particular. Which all adds up to attitudinal disaster for me: I end up eating from boredom and then feeling gross from over-eating, all the while I go about my day in a state of barely masked hostility.

It’s no good at all. By Friday night, despite going into work and despite Simon and Matt getting me my favorite chocolate and pulling a hilarious and rather delightful prank on me for Valentine’s Day, I still went to bed feeling off. Off enough that I considered telling Matt that perhaps he should keep an eye on me. I’ve never been depressed before, but there’s some family history of it, and I was getting concerned that my mood was clinically out of step with the actual conditions of my life.

Then yesterday (Saturday) happened. Simon had a soccer game at 11:00, immediately followed by a birthday party. There was so little time between the two that we brought lunch and a change of clothes with us to the game. After the drop-off, I gulped down some lunch, did some laundry, and then ran off to my pilates class, where my teacher put me though my paces on my favorite piece of equipment. Tired and sweaty, I ran home just in time to meet up with Matt and Simon, change clothes once more, and dash out for dinner with the Whitworths.

Three hours of eating, chatting, laughing, and ping-pong playing later, Simon collapsed into bed and was asleep before I said goodnight. As for me, I went to bed with a smile on my face, too. Today I am scrambling to clean my house in time to sneak in a run before Simon goes to tennis, after which we’re having friends over for dinner. Truly, I shouldn’t even be taking the time to blog, but I feel so energized that I know I’ll somehow get it all done.

Simon did not get his love of math or sports from me. That is well known. But his love—no, need—to stay busy and get out of the house? That is all me. And for the sake of our joint mental health, I hope Friday’s snow day was the last we’ll see until next winter! I also think I’ll be looking into some spring break sports camps, because right about now the prospect of just hanging out at home for a week doesn’t sound like a vacation at all!

 

 

Juxtaposition

Sometime in these past 1,048 posts (Geez, do I ever shut up?), I wrote about the odd juxtaposition of little boy and big boy qualities in Simon. Actually, now that I find it, it was about Simon’s ability to vacillate quickly between his little boy and big boy selves and how fascinating it was to watch him do something very grown up one moment and then something that only a young child would do the next.  As the scales continue to tip towards big boy these days, I am ever more charmed by flashes of little boy.

His teacher, Ms. Thomas, tells me she feels the same way. In a casual chat the other day she brought up that the best thing about teaching really smart first-graders (she came from a third-grade class at a different school) is that you forget how young they are and how much they don’t know for long stretches until their youth and inexperience flashes into the room without warning. Her example was that one minute the class was discussing the Big Bang Theory (the theory, not the show), only to howl with laughter the next at the idea that Turkey is a country. I mean, Turkey is a bird you eat at Thanksgiving right? These kids could explain how gravitational forces pulled rock into a sphere, but they could not get their heads around the fact that you could live in a place called Turkey.

My own example is a little more concrete. Just yesterday Simon took a nasty spill at soccer practice. His knee skidded on turf, and the turf won. The skin was abraded, and blood had trickled down his leg and gotten on his shorts.

He played through it to the end of practice. That’s big boy stuff right there. On our way out, we got some first-aid treatment from Coach Alex at the front counter. More big boy stuff, especially when the hydrogen peroxide came out and Alex told him that it was going to burn but that he had to do it. Back at home, we got Simon out of his kit to more thoroughly clean and dress the wound. Sitting there on the bed, wearing his Nike technical shirt and displaying a sports injury Matt was getting ready to dry, disinfect, and cover, he seemed more big boy than ever.

Until I noticed his undies. They were were pale blue, trimmed in navy, and covered all over in spotted little frogs. Total little boy undies, the likes of which we won’t be seeing for much longer.

As I take stock of his life at this point, there are precious few totems of little boyhood left. His ancient stuffed animals are little boy. His love of cats and Baby Kitten alter-ego are remnants of a mostly by-gone era. And that’s about it. The clothes are all jeans, cargos, stripes, and sports jerseys. His room still has a few little boy items in it, but is scheduled for a makeover in the coming months.

Really, it tells you how fleeting flashes of little boy are that a mere glimpse of froggie undies could bring out the wistful in me. I sure hope there are more than a few flashes left.

Losing with Grace

Historically, this is not Simon’s strong suit. I’ll give you exhibit A: Today we were playing Yahtzee together when I rolled a five  6s. This good roll ensured my victory and came after at least three losing games in a row.

“You’re going to win,” Simon sulked. “I don’t want to play anymore.”

I understand where this is coming from. In the most literal sense, it comes directly from his Uncle Steve. (I blame you, big bro, I very much blame you! ) In a less finger-pointing sense, sore losing is the direct by-product of being intense and competitive. These traits have many upsides, but they don’t tend to produce the most gracious losers, especially not in children whose super-egos are still under development. Theoretically, he’ll outgrow this or at least learn to hide it better as he ages.

Today’s sulk resulted in a good, stern talking to, the likes of which Simon seldom gets and does not enjoy one bit. In fact, owing to Simon’s also being intense and competitive about having perfect behavior, he even cried a little.

I bring this up not because Simon’s behavior today was so awful but rather because his behavior for the last few Saturdays has been so completely out of character. Saturday is game day in Simon’s soccer league, and this go-round Simon drew the short straw when it came to team placement. Not to put too fine a point on it, but his team is awful. Not mediocre. Not fair. Not even bad. They are truly, jaw-droppingly, painfully, awful. As compared to every other team we have seen play or practice, they come up short in the following ways:

  1. They are small. I don’t know how all the short 8- and 9-year-olds ended up on one team, but they did.
  2. They are inexperienced. Many of these kids look to have little or no prior soccer experience.
  3. They lack natural ability. We’ve got kids on this team who cannot control where they kick the ball and/or who often miss the ball completely. I wish that were hyperbole.
  4. They are slow. Lots of these kids don’t appear to enjoy running very much.
  5. They won’t/can’t pass or space themselves on the field. This directly follows from #2 above, and it prevents the team from creating scoring opportunities. As does not being able to kick the ball . . .
  6. They won’t/can’t listen to the coach. Yup, the cherry on top of this sundae is that the team has multiple discipline problems, including one player Matt had a run-in with during a baseball game last summer. At the end of last week’s practice (we missed this week’s due to snow and ice), Coach Maddie was hoarse and clearly flustered.

I approached her to assess the situation.

“Are they going to lose every game this session?” I asked.

“They are,” she nodded sadly. “I’m trying to at least teach them how to defend, but they won’t listen to me. It’s really bad.”

“I’m sorry. I’m Simon’s mom, and I just wanted to get the lay of the land so I could prepare him. This will be hard for him.”

“You’re Simon’s mom? He’s my ace in the hole!”

“That’s not good!” I practically yelled in response. “He was seven in October and is probably your youngest player.”

“He’s playing up? Oh God, it’s worse than I thought.”

So that’s how bad they are. They lost their first game by a lot. With mercy rules, the score board never shows more than a 4-point differential, but the kids know the truth. They lost last week’s game 2-6 according to the scoreboard and 2-10 according the actual count to a perfectly average team. Others will beat them by 10+ goals after their coach institutes rules to make scoring harder. Many 6-7 teams could beat this group.

By all rights, Simon should be gutted by this. I would expect tears, a refusal to go out and play, mystery stomach aches on game day, and the like. But amazingly, he seems ok. It’s probably a help to him that one of the other good players on his team is a girl from his school. Mia is a natural on the field, is fast as lightning, and—as Simon likes to remind me every time her name is mentioned—won the Kindness Award for third grade last month.

It might also be a help that he knows he’s playing up and doesn’t feel like he has to shoulder the responsibility for the entire team. I know for sure it helped that Simon scored off a free kick last week, sending the ball up and over a line of defenders and placing it neatly in the upper-left corner of the goal, where it’s hard to defend. Our little cheering section roared, and Simon said he could hear us over the plexiglass wall.

Still, 10 weeks is a long time to do nothing but lose. And scoring opportunities aren’t going to come very often on a team where so few can control the ball or understand how to pass. Frankly, I’m not finding it easy myself. I understand that when teams are randomly assigned you are going to draw the short straw eventually. But did it have to happen the second he was bumped up? Did he need to be on team with behavior issues as well?

It’s a sad statement given how expensive indoor soccer is, but I’m pretty much counting down the days until he moves back to Louisville Soccer Alliance and joins a U-9 outdoor league. Those kids practice twice a week for an hour and a half and are all being groomed for competitive U-10 play. They’re going to pass the ball, I hope, and pay attention to their coach while they’re at it. We can’t draw the short straw twice in a row, can we?

 

 

Motivation

Yesterday on Facebook, a friend of mine launched what turned out to be a lengthy conversation about paying kids for grades. Her position was that kids should feel pride over grades and get a small reward, something like ice cream, but not be paid big bucks for academic performance. About a third of those who joined the conversation agreed with her. Another third argued that kids should not be paid huge amounts, but that token amounts ($5 for an A; $3 for a B) were ok. The final third got angry with the other two thirds for being judgmental about their own parenting decisions and defended the payments as a reward for hard work or a motivational tool.

Hey, it’s Facebook. You know judgment is going to enter the picture.

The discussion has lead me to consider my own feelings on the matter. I never got a dime for grades. But honestly, I don’t remember peers getting paid, either. Plus, I was so hyper-competitive academically that I don’t think I cared about the cash; I just cared about the grades. What about for other kids, though? Is it really the end of the world?

I’m thinking not. If an easily distracted student is motivated to try harder by the promise of a new something or other or money for a new something or other at the end of a semester or year, I’m not going to judge. At least not out loud. I’d prefer the payment be small or something like an experience so as to not breed greed or entitlement, but one person’s token is another person’s splurge.

So will I be paying Simon for his grades?

Hahahahahhahahahhahaahhahahhaahhaahhah! A-hahahahahhahahhaahahahhahh!

No. Let me count the reasons why:

  1. He’s already plenty motivated to do his best. In fact, we’re still working on his learning that it’s OK to make a mistake.
  2. What the heck would he do with the money anyway? His peers would be buying—I guess—Lego or computer games and the like. It was hard enough to shop for Simon for his birthday and the holidays. The last thing in the world I need is another circumstance that requires shopping.
  3. To combat his perfectionism, I try hard to not talk about grades. I think I’ve only ever let Simon see his report card once. Usually I just tell him I’m proud of him for doing his best and praise him for his good behavior and effort. Still, he’s keeping score of who is the best at what in his class, and he worries that he might fall behind. Here’s a taste of what that sounds like:

“Mama, did I get any NIs (Needs Improvement, a primary grade) on my report card?”

“NIs? No. You did just fine. Do you think you got any NIs?

“I was worried I might get one in math.”

“[Internal hysterical laughter. Math is his best subject.] In math? You? Why ever would you be worried about that?”

[Holding back tears.] “Because I don’t think I did my best in math workshop this time. Sometimes when my friends are being loud and not doing what they are supposed to do, it’s hard for me to concentrate. So I’m not doing my best.”

“Well, honey, it can be hard to concentrate when it’s too noisy. I understand that and don’t think you should feel bad at all.”

“[Rallying] I have a plan. How about I ask Mrs. Thomas if I can skip recess and do math workshop then? I don’t like recess much anyway, and that way I can get more work done.”

Does that sound like a kid I should be paying for good grades? I laugh (and cringe), but the tendency for self-punishment is no laughing matter. Maybe I should take a page out of my mom’s book and offer a reward for coping with an off semester or subject.

 

 

 

Right now, snow and unusually cold temperatures (go back whence you came, polar vortex) have combined to cause several school closings and delayed starts. It’s also school choice time, when thousands of families in Jefferson County fill out paperwork to select a public school for their child to attend in the 2013-2014 school year. If these two happenings don’t draw to a close soon, I’m going to lose some friends and several friendly acquaintanceships are going to cool down considerably.

Because what I am learning from both occurrences is that while reasonable people may disagree as to how public schools should try to mitigate the negative effects of poverty and how the school assignment process should work*, some folks reveal deep ignorance of local public schools and a not insignificant amount of callousness while stating their opinions. And that, my friends, is raising my hackles, my blood pressure, and my voice.

As this is a soap-box rant, I’m putting it below the fold.

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The Purge

Once upon a time, Matt and I used to read. Actually, Matt still does and I do sometimes, but neither of us is plowing through serious novels and important non-fiction like we used to. Also once upon a time, Matt and I were averse to the library. A weekend night frequently ended up in a one- or two-hour browsing session at the local book shop, followed by a $50+ (echem, or $100+) trip to the cash register.

We kept everything we bought, too. Everything. Our bedrooms had bookshelves in them. Our living room featured bookshelves. The back-drop of our dining room? Uh huh, book-cases. Some books were kept because we loved them and revisited them like old friends. That would be the Tolkien and Camus (Matt) and Smiley and Sayers (me). Some books were kept because we just knew that one day we’d get around to reading and/or finishing. Think Infinite Jest or The Shipping News. Then there were the books that were put on display as a public declaration of our intelligence.  “Damn right,” those books proclaimed, “we are deep-thinking intellectuals. Repect!”  Think anything translated from the Russian, anything written in Middle English, and most of my philosophy and poetry collection.

When we moved back to Louisville, we were somewhat startled to discover that our books had exceeded our storage capacity. The placement of windows and walls in our house did not allow us to add much more book capacity. We have small cases in the living room, one in Matt’s office, one in Simon’s room, one in the guest bedroom, and three downstairs. That’s it. We’ve got books double and triple stacked everywhere, shelves straining and bowing in the cheap cases we bought in our salad days, and a general book storage crisis. What’s more, much of our collection is getting yellow around the edges. Some of the oldest books are slightly curled and musty, too. In a library, musty smells and yellowed pages add to the romance and charm. In our house, however, they just add to allergen load.

So they are going. Matt is the one who made the initial declaration upon discovering that our downstairs cases had sustained some water damage. As I hate clutter and he’s a Howard Hughes in the making, this excited me. We were going to tidy up! We went down for the first round a few nights ago and established three stacks: Keep, Donate, Recycle. After an hour or so of work, I looked over to see that Matt’s keepers stack was about 20% of his entire collection. My own keepers stack was closer to 60%. Maybe even 70%.

It would seem that, as is typical for us, I’ve been decrying our need to “clean up” our cases for years, but can only take tiny steps in that direction. Matt, meanwhile, who has to be bullied to throw anything away and never gets around to this type of organization, is on a mission. Once he makes up his mind (and it might take years), he goes all out, and he has planned the Great Book Purge of 2014. His goal? Not replace either of our two damaged downstairs cases.

Wow. On the one hand, it’s ridiculously hard for me to get rid of books, even if I know I’ll (likely) never read them again. Books are my security blanket. On the other hand, I will never, ever, EVER, win an argument about clutter and housekeeping if Matt purges his shelves while I barely make a dent in mine. My credibility will be shot!

Still, I ask myself: What if I finally get around to that Doris Lessing book I’ve been thinking about reading for 20 years? What if I suddenly decide I need to re-read the biography of John Donne? What if I someone asks me about The Great Chain of Being or a Bronze Age piece of art and I’ve tossed the reference? What if I need to brush up on my reading German?

In writing this, I realize that real question swirling in my head is “What if getting rid of so many books makes me become—or look—really, really stupid?”

Just typing that is like giving myself a good shake. Now I’m asking myself another question: What if one day Simon needs to help his aging parents move to Del Boca Vista Phase III and suffers from muscle strain and an asthma attack as a result of dealing with a metric ton of rotting books his parents couldn’t part with due to nostalgia, mental illness, and ego? Plus, can’t we get most anything on our e-readers if the event of a John Donne or ancient art historical emergency? Yes we can! So they’re going.

Here’s the criteria for keeping a book: Must be essential reference, a beloved book I re-read and/or lend, or something that changed how I think. Chicago Manual of Style; the collected works of Herriott, Sayers, Smiley, Ecco, Ishiguro, and Ondaatje; and select Joyce stays. Elizabeth George, most of my other mysteries, outdated ancient histories, of-the-moment (5-20 years ago) political science books, all but one Krakauer, good novels I never much liked, and light fiction I bought for plane rides are going once, going twice, gone to the book sale at Locust Grove.

Here’s the end goal: A little more space and breathing room. A lot less clutter. And no must.

Wish me luck!

Between the preschool, Brandeis, and various sporting leagues I have a chance to observe a lot of other parenting. Sometimes I get ideas from peers: I’ll never forget the day I watched Caroline’s dad effortlessly redirect Caroline and Simon when they were about 3 years old and realized I was making things harder than necessary for myself and Simon. Sometimes I absolutely cringe: At open house this year, I watched a parent consistently berate a child in a way that made me want to flee the room.  Almost always–whether I should or not–I judge.

What are the advantages, I wonder, of having a calm parent who can correct/redirect/cope so well without getting punitive or loud? They must be huge. What kind of damage is done, I also wonder, by having a parent who is always, always on your case? Can we put all the parents who never reprimand their kids in a transmogrifier machine with all the parents who never say a kind a word and arrive at some kind of happy medium? If only.

(If transmogrifiers existed, I’d want to put Simon and Ben in, select the “fearlessness” dial, and average them out on that score. Maybe Simon could be less timid and Ben less prone to injury!)

Anyway, I’ve blogged about watching and judging other parents before. Many times. Now I can see that Simon is getting into the game, and that puts me in a tricky spot.

For example, we recently attended a sporting event (I’ll say no more) with friends. Simon was having a great day at said sport. One of the friends was off. As the game/play continued, this friend’s parent began to coach: “Do this! Do that!” Then question: “What are you doing? Why did you do that?” Then despair: “I don’t know how to help you. You aren’t listening today.” Then admonish: “What’s wrong with you today? I can’t do anything with you.”

Honestly, it was pretty painful. I know that my own approach leans heavily towards the much maligned American school of positive reinforcement and over-abundance of self-esteem, but this was surely too far in the other direction. The other child smiled through most of it. And yet, the smile seemed off, like an embarrassed smile rather than a happy one. Or maybe that’s just me projecting because I was miserable and felt terrible for the child.

I kept watching for signs of distress in Simon and didn’t see any. However, the second we got into the car, the questions began.

“Why did _____’s  Mom/Dad keep yelling like that?”

I did not have a great answer.

“Well, honey, some families are just like that. Different houses have different ways of talking to each other. In our house, we don’t yell like that because it makes all of us feel bad. But some other people aren’t as sensitive. ____ seemed OK. But I’ll be honest with you, it made me feel bad and I wished ____ wouldn’t have yelled, either.”

I could have handled that better. Unfortunately, I had a chance for a redo a few days ago. Simon was talking about a classmate who struggles to behave and keep up with the class. I asked how the child was doing, and Simon said this:

“Oh, Mama. _____ is unteachable. I see his [parent] all the time and [he/she] is always yelling at him, too.”

This made my heart sink. But the example was extreme enough that I had a ready response, too.

“Oh Simon, don’t say or think that. Everyone is teachable. It’s easier for some to learn than others. It’s easier for some to pay attention and behave than others. And every school isn’t the right match for every student. But ____ can learn. And I’m sorry that ____’s Mom/Dad is always yelling. Because if you hear you can’t do something often enough, you start to believe it. Everyone deserves a chance to succeed, and everyone deserves parents and teachers who think you can succeed. Let’s talk about what _____ is good at.”

This might be the first time that Simon heard me flat-out state that I think another parent is doing something the wrong way. It’s a fine, fine line to teach him how to trust his own instincts and stick to his principles while not getting into trouble for disrespecting parents and authority figures. Now that Simon is old enough to have his own ideas about right and wrong, I sense that we’ll be walking this line more often. It’s going to be a fascinating, difficult, and important adventure.

Below Average

Happier Times at the Mega Cavern

By now I’ve made it pretty clear that I hold my son in high regard. I think Simon is sweet, smart, and a surprisingly good athlete. I’ve copped to his being a picky eater and non-awesome artist, but many of my posts focus on his strengths. This isn’t one of them.

Because good grief the boy can’t work a puzzle. His puzzle ineptness is epic. If you evaluated him based on ability to put together a puzzle, you’d send him back to the toddler room. It’s almost amazing. A week ago, we began work on a geography puzzle. His first instinct was to complain that it “only” had a hundred pieces. His second instinct was to try to put two pieces together: one yellow and one pink; one with writing on the horizontal and the other with writing on the perpendicular.

“Simon, does that look possible to you?” I asked. “I quit.” came the answer. “No you don’t–but take your time and think.”

So he did. For about two minutes. After successfully putting pieces together where both fit into the same country or continent, I handed him a corner piece. Which he promptly tried to put in the middle of the puzzle.

“Simon! Does that look like a place a corner piece could go?” I asked. “Yeah!” came the reply.

I might have liked it better when he quit.

And so it went. Eventually we put the puzzle together (whoever says there’s no “I” in “we” got that one wrong!) without coming to blows or tears. Simon even learned a little from it and got better. But it was tough going for sure.

The other domain at which he stinks? Climbing. I blame Matt for this one. When we were in our twenties in Ann Arbor, circumstances found us needing to hop a fence.* I scrambled over quickly, only to turn around and see Matt stuck at the top. Really stuck. He got down eventually—we did marry, move across the country and back, and have a child—but for a while there in the early ’90s I was worried he’d grow old atop a 5-foot piece of chain-link.

Last Thursday we headed to the Louisville Mega Cavern ropes course with Simon and my nephew Ben. Like Simon, Ben is smart, particularly good at math, and a gifted athlete who loves watching America Ninja Warrior. Unlike Simon, Ben is a natural climber, possessed of strength, agility, and total fearlessness.

Whereas Simon, bless his heart, is all tangled feet and elbows when he goes to climb, is underpowered in the upper body, and is scared to be more than about six inches above ground. My mom and Matt are both acrophobes, so this isn’t surprising. We got off to a disastrous start at the ropes course, choosing a path that required us to climb a steep ladder and reclip our lines about four times while ascending. Things escalated from bad, “I’m scared!”, to worse, loud sobbing, quickly. I took over at that point, holding on to Simon and clipping and re-clipping both our lines while we descended. There’s nothing like being terrified (Simon) and sweaty from exertion (me) before officially getting started.

From this point onwards, we chose the low route. And even then, there were times when Simon was shaky: like on a section where you climb between wiggly logs. He was too short to reach all the holds and terrified of falling . . .  six inches down, while wearing a harness. Ben, meanwhile, was climbing, hanging, and zip-lining away on the level above our heads.

And hour or so into the day, Matt took over with an ever more confident Simon while I scrambled up to join Ben above. Boy was it fun! Better yet, I wasn’t bad at it. Two years of pilates has done wonders for my balance and upper-body strength. I’d love to got back. So would Simon. But the entire experience was chastening. I asked him on the way out if he thought he was ready to be on America Ninja Warrior. He smiled sheepishly and said, “Ben is, but I think I need more practice.”

Say this for the boy, he knows his limits.

*I know this sounds nefarious, but I think we were just trying to get to our car without walking very far after getting lost and walking and circles. I’m sure we could have been busted for trespassing, but we weren’t up to anything bad.

 

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