it takes a village
October 8, 2011 § Leave a comment
My son is having peer problems at school. It began with a group taunting him with an inappropriate rhyme. Then, someone was unkind during gym class. Most recently a peer was disrespectful while waiting for the school bus. When my son came home in gym clothes because his school clothes disappeared from his locker my strength wavered. I reached out to a friend and to my son’s school for support, reassurance, and guidance. It takes a village to raise a child.
We build confidence and self-esteem at home. Then, in moments of difficulty we nurture our strength with numbers. When peers, parents, and teachers stand behind a child the weight of a challenge becomes bearable. The message of compassion and value dispels toxic notions of unworthiness.
It is important to note I do not allow my son to play victim. I try to give him a new script and recast supporting roles as needed. Each unfortunate experience begins with, you do not deserve to be treated that way. Then I try to open up a dialogue that allows my son to look at the problem, generate possible solutions, and reinforce self-worth. We have a similar conversation when he is unkind.
My conversations with teachers are centered in creating awareness and a sense of safety in the space of a school day. I try to fight against labeling children bad. Rather I look towards the problem causing children to act badly, trying to determine how best to help my son navigate his day with both compassion and self-respect.
I turn to my friends for wisdom. As a mother I am continually finding my way and looking to other strong women for guidance. Some days, they are my sounding board, other times they are fantastic listeners, but more often they are a fresh perspective that lends balance to a moment mired in my own concerns.
Throughout our misadventures in 6th grade, I have had the strength of a village. May every child know a community of compassion and concern that celebrates and reinforces a strength of character empowering a future of possibility.
marginally successful
October 2, 2011 § Leave a comment
My children reside in the academic margins of test scores, their success defined just outside the traditional framework. Both of my children have been gifted challenges that require a unique approach to traditional classroom expectations.
This year has been a transition year as my son moved from elementary to middle school. Early on there were signs he was struggling with otherwise simple tasks. Specifically, note taking and classroom activities. Up until last year there was an aide in his classrooms available to support my son when his attention wandered. This year, he is independently accountable for the little things that collectively make a big difference.
In the company of my son’s middle school teachers, a special education coordinator asked: What are your goals for your son? My husband and I had come to the meeting with a unique goal in mind. To set aside grades and test scores and chart our son’s ability to self-monitor as he learns to rely on himself for redirection. It was a goal that may have made other teachers uncomfortable, but his teachers respected this honest request. In a system where students and teachers are rated by scores, lesson plans structured to prepare students for tests and test scores used to measure success, our son’s teachers set aside those expectations and honored our wish.
Simultaneously, my daughter is struggling in elementary school. Reading and math skills loom in front of her like giant trees blocking the road to success. Slowly, we are all pushing against the weight of the block, moving forward together. Her teacher sees the seeds of greatness hidden behind test scores and nurtures my daughter’s strengths while challenging her to grow.
The unique needs that have created poor test scores have gifted my children space in the margins to blossom. Rather than focus on what they know, we are guiding them through the experiences of their mistakes. Perceived failure is often just a lesson in strength; success a personal achievement.
these boots were made for talkin’
October 1, 2011 § Leave a comment
For years my daughter favored an inexpensive pair of black mary jane dress shoes. So well-loved were her shoes that she would fill in scratches with a black permanent marker until we were forced to replace them in a new size. Recently, my daughter has outgrown old favorites, creating a new experience.
Not one for shopping, I appealed to my daughter’s love of playing dress-up and we set out to try on new favorites. I met my match in creative opposition over a pair of shiny, black knee-high boots that seemed to scream “not old enough.” I am sure my daughter heard my doubts clamoring noisily in my head.
Stubborn, she stuffed her feet and baggy pants into the boots and paraded around the display tables. Eyes sparkling, she gauged my reaction, clearly anticipating a no. Instead, I countered and caught her off-balance. I said yes.
Once home, I embraced her new exercise in independence by outlining appropriate clothing choices for her new look. Together we felt around blindly at new boundaries. We broadened our choices from color and size to embrace self-respect and self-expression. The following day, dressed in her boots and an outfit I approved of, my daughter’s feet barely touched the ground as she walked to school.
Hand in hand, my little girl thanked me for her boots. She said they made her feel respected. I listened, entranced as my daughter opened up. My yes was really a validation of my daughter’s independent spirit, and an exercise in trust. She knows I am listening and I know she hears me.
my girl
September 22, 2011 § Leave a comment
I have been toying with the idea that there is a complex mathematical equation that when applied explains the phenomenon of my daughter’s fluctuating maturity. The variables are uncomplicated and the product inconsistent. So far I have determined:
Age + Experience x Weather ÷ Mood = Today’s Lucky Number
Wise beyond her years and sweetly naive, my daughter is a complex contradiction in simple truths. She is dominant with her brother who is largely submissive; passive with peers that are aggressively dominant. She is angry when I am generous, grasping hungrily at excess; generously apologetic and genuinely remorseful when I am angry. She basks in her role as the baby and fights to be taken seriously as a big kid. She entertains us with comedy and crumbles if someone laughs at her. She works tirelessly to accomplish a task, but bemoans high expectations. She is predictably unpredictable and perpetually certain.
I am fascinated, bewildered, entertained, and inspired by this tiny powerhouse of fragility I proudly and lovingly call My Girl.
comfortably unsettled
September 20, 2011 § Leave a comment
Sometimes a little discomfort creates moments of greatness. Sitting among parents and educators gathered together to listen to a speaker on the subject of resilience, I quietly encountered emotions unexpressed that had lain dormant without a voice and hidden behind good intentions. Fear, doubt, uncertainty, hope. Am I parenting properly? In teaching resilience, mistakes are mandatory.
Education is a subject of importance to each parent invested in their child’s future. I have found myself frequently looking outside the box for ways to facilitate my children’s educational experience in the hope that they will gather the tools and life skills to create their own future. The greater lessons are taught outside of class, unprinted in text books.
I could outline for you the schools we have chosen and the teaching styles we have explored but I think there is something to be said for my children’s raw materials. Bottom line: I am blessed with two curious children that love to explore their world, have faith that they can approach new experiences with ability, and a willingness to create with spare parts.
My children’s greatest challenge was me. I am a grown-up stereotypical “good girl” with an eagerness to please and a need to be accepted. Luckily my spunky children are comfortable with an uncomfortable mother. They are secure in their imperfections and aware of their needs and limits. I have become comfortable with imperfect grades, unfinished homework, and simpler schedules; putting my children’s needs before other people’s standards of excellence.
In our house we do our best, work hard, sleep well, relax, play and have family time. We also argue, fighting for what we believe in. We apologize for causing hurt and do not apologize for our differences.
Today I listened to someone tell me we will be okay and I felt immeasurable relief. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath. This job of parenting is impossibly imperfect and perfectly rewarding. We do our best and fight for what we believe in. We make mistakes and carry on.
measure of time
September 16, 2011 § Leave a comment
Big brown eyes brimming with wonder, my son is fascinated by the immeasurable quality of time. His first insight came over a year ago when he uttered casually: I wish there were a way to recycle wasted time. I immediately captured his words on paper and frequently re-read his sentiment marveling at the purity of his wish.
This summer, as the school year approached, he revisited the subject of time feeling overwhelmed by the dwindling days of summer vacation. Mournful and mindful of each day leading up to the first day of school, he was reflective and sensitive. He would passionately proclaim the imbalance of time’s measurement, convinced that time passes too quickly functioning outside the boundaries marked by the simple hands of man-made clocks.
Last night, he came to me long gangly legs awkwardly tumbling down the stairs, a face marked by discovery and a voice hushed with the awe of awareness and said: Mom, I figured out the true meaning of happiness in life. You can wish all you want for your birthday and Christmas, but you shouldn’t. Time will slip away through your fingers, but you won’t realize it. The true meaning of happiness is to enjoy each and every day.
Again, I felt the need to capture a singular moment in time, my fingers rushing desperately across my keyboard attempting to catch his words in proper sequence. This child that came to me as an unexpected gift, a happy surprise, has marked the passing of years with an awareness and wisdom that inspires me to embrace each moment.
parenting in progress
September 12, 2011 § Leave a comment
I am an amateur. I have lofty dreams of parenting from a serene source of strength, but sometimes I struggle to be the mother I strive to be.
I never intend to raise my voice to my children and still I have. The sharp sound of my voice tinged with anger makes me feel horrible and has yet to fix poor behavior, but in moments of extreme frustration I sometimes lose sight of intentions and ideologies grasping desperately for order and authority. Shame for my own impatience guides me to apologize. In our house we have expanded sorry to encompass a promise, we say: Sorry means I will try to do better.
My kids know I am fallible, it would seem silly to hide this. I cannot imagine the standard of perfection that would cast judgment on their own mistakes without the balance of my errors. I hope my children are comfortable with both making mistakes and striving to learn from them. I often think of my children as consultants in parenting; sometimes they teach me, often times they forgive me, but mostly they hold me accountable to do my best.
On Saturday, my son snapped at my daughter and my daughter threw a noisy, public temper tantrum. I was horrified and snapped back. Maybe they were tired, hungry, overheated, or under the weather. Regardless of why, they were unhappy and ugliness seemed to puddle around us drawing each of us further into a muck of misery. Underneath the unpleasantness were these amazing little souls that provide me with moments of joy, humor, compassion, and wisdom.
I sat both children down and held for them the mirror of accountability that they hold for me. We talked our way through the problems and I asked them who they want to be; if their behavior best represented the person they are on the inside. They are no more bad kids, than I am a bad mom. They are little people still making sense of their world just as I am finding my way through motherhood. Forgiveness and understanding, acceptance for our imperfections and opportunities to do better are all any of us can hope for.
Parenting is an ongoing effort full of adjustments, lessons, apologies, and hope; a work in progress. Each day is a new beginning, an opportunity to do better.
homework helper
September 5, 2011 § Leave a comment
A little over a week into the new school year and we are all passively protesting the routines like a new pair of shoes that are pinching and confining. We fuss over the discomfort, grumbling under our breath at the inconvenient newness while longing for the old, beloved, well-worn comforts of summer. Each child tumbles down the stairs half conscious for breakfast only to scramble each evening into bed exhausted and eager to cocoon among dreams. Behind the scenes, I too am begrudgingly adapting to a new school year.
Our mornings are busy with breakfast and simple acts of preparing for the day ahead. Evenings have lulled us into a false sense of normalcy; sunshine makes the hours after school dismissal seem longer and an absence of homework makes the new year feel deceptively, effortlessly manageable. I am mindful of evenings ahead centered at the dining room table as textbooks, paper, and sharpened pencils steal lazy evenings outdoors.
Homework has often signaled a power struggle between my children and my expectations. This year, I am hoping to change the dynamics of dreaded anticipation into an opportunity for accountability. I am attempting to empower my children to seek out the answers, by giving them room to find them. I fall too easily into the habit of coaching and editing; controlling under the guise of helping my very capable children through their work.
I began to step back from the homework table when my son was in 4th grade, giving him room to make mistakes. This year, I am trying to create an expectation of independence for both children. I am placing myself off to the side, waiting to see if they need me and willing to help if necessary; fostering a quiet faith in their ability.
Tomorrow will be a true test as we juggle our first school day with homework and evening activities. Fingers crossed, this is the week we settle into our after-school routines.
a lesson in labels
August 31, 2011 § 1 Comment
At an early age my son was diagnosed with PDD-NOS and ADHD, a jumbled mess of letters, their meaning uncomfortable and overwhelming. Pervasive Developmental Disorder – Not Otherwise Specified, an Autism Spectrum Disorder, and Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder.
I remember the moment of my son’s diagnoses with physical clarity. My body struggled to draw air while images of my son’s past and future flashed before my eyes; a conscious drowning. My heart heavy with fear for the future, my mind desperate for facts, my body achy with unexpressed grief; physically, mentally, and emotionally I wanted to reject the diagnoses. I worried doctors, teachers, family, friends, and strangers would compartmentalized my son’s spirit and unique mannerisms to fit in the confines of sterile, medical labels.
That day my husband and I promised one another to use our son’s diagnoses as tools for understanding him better and helping him live a full life. We endeavored to discuss our son’s needs honestly, without apology or shame. The first year of his diagnoses was focused on facilitating our son’s emotional, social, physical, and academic needs. Throughout that year we maintained a sense of privacy concerning our son’s diagnoses as we educated ourselves and made difficult decisions. It was important to us that we share correct information and make decisions free of others’ expectations and opinions. We had a small, close-knit support group consisting of physicians, psychiatrists, therapists, educators, family, and a handful of friends.
One year after the diagnoses we shared our news in the lines of a letter as we raised money to support Autism Speaks. Our son tallied the donations and read the letters of support that poured in, aware only of love and kindness from the multitude of faces that were a part of his life. It is with this experience that our son, at the age of 6, first told people he was Artistic. He understood part of his diagnoses meant he had a collection of characteristics typical of children on the Autism Spectrum, but speech delays created an endearing proclamation of Artistic. He would smile brightly at the revelation and continue on his way, unaffected and proud.
With the development of homework, we began to understand new challenges stemming from ADHD. We talked directly to our son and teachers, but less openly to others. Too often I found myself in the company of passionate debates concerning diet and medication. I honor others’ choices for themselves and their children, but wanted our family’s decisions to remain uninfluenced by popular opinions. It was the diagnosis we didn’t talk about.
Standing in line during my son’s Middle School visitation, a woman asked us for medical forms. My son, loudly and abruptly, declared to the woman collecting forms that he has ADHD and takes medication. I flinched at the stark revelation and instinctively looked around to gauge the reaction of those around us. I was still processing my son’s statement when a young girl behind us in a full voice announced she has Asperger’s and takes medication. Just like that, I felt eccentrically normal.
Years of tucking parts of our life into safe pockets of friendship and suddenly it felt okay to let go. My son likes who he is even if he doesn’t like his challenges. There was a lesson there in a moment shared with strangers. For all my efforts to see my son completely, it was my son that showed me he is whole.
to my son
August 30, 2011 § Leave a comment
Last night, before going to bed, you paused on the landing of the stairs and said you made a new friend at school. Enumerating on your new friend’s intelligence and kindness, you said you felt lucky. I feel lucky too.
When you were little you would introduce yourself to others, children and adults, with a sweetly naive promise to be their new best friend. It was the verbalization of your toddler self waddling onto adult’s laps or holding other children’s hands; loving openly and completely.
There came a moment in Kindergarten when you began hiding from peers. Moments of disappointment or rejection among classmates caused you to guard your feelings more closely. You maintained a couple of close friends, children that would stand beside you through thick and thin, but you stopped reaching out to new children for friendship.
The more you closed yourself off, the more I missed the little boy with the open heart. I waited, sometimes beside you and other times in the background, hoping a day would come when you would open up and let down your guard.
Last night, listening to you extol the virtues of your new friend I gave thanks that your vast heart could still open up and welcome someone new. Your new friend is lucky to have you, too.
Love,
Mom
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