The Taming of the Child (through a profuse usage of exclamation points)

 

 On Thursday after my students boarded their buses for spring holiday, I sat down to call some families.  I was making a list in my head all week of students who were doing a great job as of late.  I made three phone calls, each showing success in different areas:

• A boy who was failing due to talking, playing, and general tomfoolery had been more focused and engaged in his work this week
• A girl who is prone to emotional outbursts made it through the week without a tantrum 
• A boy who often gets angry and confrontational with kids made it through the week without threatening anyone

I called the guardians (an uncle, a mom, and an older sister) and spoke positively about their student's positive behavior improvements.  The guardians were pleased by the report and I was able to make a connection with the adults at home-letting them know I was invested in their student and that they were having success at school.

After I hung up the phone, I left the building in route to pick up my own kid and perhaps if I wasn't sitting in traffic for thirty minutes I wouldn't have had time to have an existential crisis on the matter.  Yet, as I sat squished between cars in the 5:00 standstill, I scanned the radio twice before settling on silence and began to mull over the conversations.  I put myself in the role of the parent of one of my students.  Thinking about the type of call I just made and I felt it hit me.  Like a ton of freaking bricks.

We tame our children. 

We turn them into versions of people that we think will have some likelihood of surviving in the environment around us. 

We (teachers) try ceaselessly to help all the kids who walk through our door find academic, social, and emotional success.  So our kids who are wildly emotional (passionate), our kids who are loud and silly (humoristic), and our kids who are hostile (distrusting until proven otherwise) are molded into schoolable kids.  Do they become less passionate as a result?  Does some part of them disappear?  Does their sense of carefree wonder get stifled by our projections of what success look like? 

I am a human who conditions other humans to fit in a sort of box!  (At this point I am freaking out in the car). Forget test scores, reading levels, knowledge of science, or math, or history-I shape 10-year-olds into who they are as people!  WHAT MAKES ME QUALIFIED?!

As my heart started to pound in my chest, I remembered, I am their teacher!  I am their advocate!  I am there to be there for them!

And suddenly I remembered how I feel when the other kids shy away from these passionate, verbose, and high-strung kids.  
I remembered how I feel when these kids are reluctant to trust me. 
I remembered how much I care about them.

My heart settles on a thought-I don't think I could or would do anything different.

Then I started thinking about my kid.

I tame my child. 

I attempt to turn him into a version of person that I think will have some likelihood of surviving in the environment around me. 

I (parent) try ceaselessly to balance my child's natural wildness and the social norms of society on him from the start.  I know how I feel when my kid is knuckle deep in his nose at church and screams like a banshee when I try to intervene.  And I also know how I feel when I see him tromping most triumphantly through the over grown weeds, wielding a stick, and giving loud commands to his imaginary crew of followers.  

I feel the weight of all of this. I want my child to be free in his mind and free in his spirit.  I want my kid to have healthy relationships with other people.  I want my child to know how to navigate different situations with ease.

I want him to be happy.



Really, I just want to not screw him up.




For more on my teaching adventure see:
Reflections on my first year of teaching at an urban school

I'd Do It For Him.

 When I started writing blog I had no vision for what it would look like in the future, but here we are three years since the farts first went on parade and I still have more stories to tell.  The most recent of which, is a whole new level of momness.

My least favorite place to take my son is to a store.  The battle of getting into the cart, the fact that his arms can reach the shelves, the bribing with snacks, the eventual flinging of the snacks, the checkout line, the getting him back out of the cart- all of it stresses me out.  But we parents, we do it anyway, don't we?  Multiple times a week, sacrificing our good mood for tubes of toothpaste and yet another gallon of milk.

Needing a random assortment of things, a superstore would allow me to get all I needed with only one cart debacle.  So on to Walmart we went.  I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich ready for a meltdown and pack of fruit snacks if things got really dicey.  Up and down the aisles we wound collecting our supplies as he munched quietly on his pbj.  Finally, we made it to our last department-photo.  At the counter I ask for my pictures and then manage to talk the young employee into checking me out there.  He hesitantly agrees as I start pulling art supplies, kale, and baby wipes out of the cart. But three minutes later, I was all ready to go, giant-front-of-the-store-line avoided!

Feeling like a winner, we left this far corner of the world and headed out.  Winding through a few side aisles, we hit that big opening that leads straight to the door. Then my son starts crying out of nowhere, which is really uncharacteristic of him.  I am not saying I have one of those kids that doesn't cry, but it is usually preceded by the word "no" or running face first into a door.  Again.   But nevertheless, he was fussing and chanting "Momma hod choo! Momma hod choo!"  So I scoop him and he lays his head on my shoulder.  Figuring that he is just tired, I lean my face to his, enjoying the little cuddle.  One hand on the cart, we continue toward the door, past a big cardboard display of bargain towels, toward a a wire rack of $5 decorative wall paintings of flowers, and birds and the like.  Then suddenly

He ralphs...

Everywhere...

Thrice...

I freeze.  Not sure what to do, I just sit down.  He is still laying on my shoulder, but now both of us are coated in yuck.  I keep telling him, "It's ok.  It's ok.  It's ok." which I realize now was entirely for myself. As I am sitting there, looking on at the disaster that has befallen upon this major thoroughfare, in this the busiest store in America, an older man stops to ask if we are ok.  Snapping back to life, I respond that having clean up paged would be so helpful.  He smiles and leaves.  A minute later I hear the call, "Clean up needed in action alley."  Action alley?  Damn skippy this is action alley.  Towels are cheap, you can decorate every wall of a room for $20.00, oh, and there is vomit everywhere.  

People continue down the path toward me, first noticing that my cart is not moving, then realizing why, then taking a detour.  I apologize profusely and everyone is profusely nice to me in return.  In between apologies, I watch the giant mechanical door, just 20 yards away opening and closing, letting the non-puking shoppers out into the night.  Yet, there we sat.  Together on the floor, coated in throw up, feeling the cool draft with each customer's exit.  It was lonely.  I was humbled.  I was so mom.  Not grossed out yet, not trying to flee the scene in shame, just rocking my little boy as he rubbed his face further in toward my neck, smearing his trails of his evacuation into my shoulder.  I was reminded so instantly of all that I would endure for him.  I always knew I would give him my organs or fight off a bear for him, but I hadn't considered the possibility that could end up on that hateful people of walmart website with vomit in my hair.  But I would do it for him.


This reminded me of one of the most tender moments from The Simpsons.

(image from: http://images.laughaton.com/13479/Simpsons-Moments-8211-Do-It-For-Her)

Speech Therapy

We speak a code language at our house.  It is an alphabet without L's, PH's, J's, F's, TH's, sometimes R's, or multi-syllable words.  And let me tell you-I am quite fluent in this vernacular.  It rivals Spanish as my next best language.

While it is good that I know "Pa push da bunt!" means "Phil(the dog) pushed the button on the remote and made the volume go off.", but at 28-months, it is time to help the world understand my son. 

This Thursday, he will be evaluated for speech therapy.  I am both very excited and inexplicably hesitant.  Since he was born, he has been free to be himself.  We have not cut his hair, pushed him toward an interest, prompted him to decide if he is going to be left or right handed.  He has just been his own choosing.  In so many ways my husband and I have shaped him in to the little man that he is, but it happened organically and without an agenda.  Now we are letting someone else in.  And it feels strange.

I am the one who pushed for him to be tested.  Many kind people in our lives encouraged us that he would grow out of it and be fine in a few years.  It isn't a bad theory, lots of kids do manage it alone.  But until these people have been here on a 12 time out kind of morning.  Until they have listened to my son yell the same things over and over until he starts hitting because no one knows what he is saying.  Until they have heard the garbled speech for an entire car ride home from daycare and not understood a dang word of it, it seems unfair to make such a claim.

I believe in interventions. I am a teacher for crying out loud! Do you know how many meetings I have sat in, where a parent was informed that their child was in need of intervention?  Do I suddenly know how they feel? Yes.

It isn't shame.  It isn't embarrassment.  It isn't really sadness, though my eyes disagree.  It is the heartbreak of feeling like a helpless parent.  Of knowing how the multitude of sacrifices made since pregnancy, just weren't quite enough.  Not that those were in vain, but that according to some measure against others, against the "norm", something may be broken and I can't fix it.  


*Update*

We had the evaluation.  We learned two things:
1. He is definitely marble mouthed and the doctor did not understand all the things that my son said, but his mouth is able to make all the phonemic sounds.  Even though there are several letters missing from his alphabet now, he is physiologically able to make them, and he will.
2. He wants to talk like other people he hears- 4+ word sentences, multi-syllable words, etc, so he uses "jargon" (nonsense words) to fill in the spaces between words he can say to feel confident in his speech.   All this time we couldn't understand him, but a good bit of the time, they weren't words in the first place.
3. There is no obvious indication that he will mature through the speech stages at any significant lag from the norm.
4. I feel sadness that I projected a problem onto my child by comparing him against the world.
5. My child, speech impaired or not, is a wondrous being that delights my heart.



If you would like to know more about speech stages, this link may be of use to you.
http://www.children.gov.on.ca/htdocs/English/topics/earlychildhood/speechlanguage/brochure_speech.aspx

New Parents

I have been reflecting on birth lately.  As if that is something normal that people sit around and think on, but nevertheless, I have been.

A few weeks ago, I got to hold a newborn baby in the hospital.  I got to watch as the purply little fingers changed to pink with time and much flexing. I got to feel the arm flails and kicks that were exactly the same out in the world, as they had been for months in utero.  I was amazed, not just by the darling baby, but by her parents as well.

Have you ever seen a woman after she has given birth?  There is never a time that a woman will look more beautiful.  I know, it sounds lame, but that is for real.  Radiating from the face of the mother is something so spectacular, that it makes her look different.  She will look like herself as she was meant to be.  The expression is not particularly smiley or proud, but it is as if all the crinkles of life beyond that moment are relaxed and the only thing left to read on her face is love.

And when the baby moves from arm to arm of goo-goo-eyed family members, the tie between mom and baby is still there.  It is so strongly present that it seems tangible, as if I could reach out a feel the string between their hearts.  Its not fear or anxiety that keeps them linked, but just that they haven't quite become two people yet.  Coming into the world doesn't immediately sever the oneness, as we think it does through physical actions, instead the becoming two separate people part is a gradual process and in some small way a never-ending one. The very stuff of our being is borrowed from our mothers, are we ever really distinctly apart from them?

And then there is the partner.  The one who is thrust into something so immediately and so completely without the surge of hormones and god-designed biochemistry of attachment, brought on by child bearing.  The partner doesn't have a baby, but they HAVE a baby.  It must be strange.  I can't truly fathom or appreciate that world, because what do I know of it.  Yet, I can't help but see it again in my head- the face of dads with new babies.  Amazement.  Its a look that says, "I knew it would work.  It just doesn't seem like that should have worked.  But it worked.  And now they are here."  My grandmother (due to a speech problem) often uses an adjective- "numbfounded".  It is the perfect word for the face of someone who has just seen a miracle.   It is there when they answer the nurse's questions, or stop to take a bite to eat, just this faraway look of wow.  

When I was six, my mom had a little boy.  I went to see them at the hospital and can only remember going out into the hallway so they could take my mom's IV port out and me not get squeamish.  I came back into the room a little worked up (at six I knew needles hurt, I had no concept of what child birth entailed), expecting my mom to be reacting like I had after my kindergarten booster shots.  But, there she was, a portrait of calm, delicately adjusting the blankets surrounding our brother.

It was another 13 years before I went to the hospital to see a new mom.  This time my eventual sister-in-law.  (Looking back, I can't believe she was okay with me, her brother's girlfriend, coming to see them.  But I am forever grateful that she did.)  It was so quiet in the room when we got there.  Neither parent was talking, they were just looking at their new baby.  We held the baby with such stiff arms they quivered under the seven pound bundle. And as they watched us holding their daughter, I saw those expressions, I just didn't know how to label them. 

The next time I was in the hospital with a newborn, it was my turn.  My husband took a picture of my son and I just after he was born.  It is my most beloved moment, and in it, is that look that I have only recently begun to decipher.

Less than a year after I had my son, my sister-in-law had another baby, this time a boy.  It was present there to.  The looks on both their faces, not weakened or diminished by multiple experiences.  Even with their other children present and the light-heartedness of their questions and musing.  Love.  And amazement.  Love.  And amazement.

Most recently I met my niece and as we made the nine hour drive back home afterward, my mind was swimming with all that had been stirred in me.  I kept seeing my sister's face as the baby cried and with a fountain of patience and tenderness, she just cuddled and talked to her new baby.  I kept hearing her husband say, "She was amazing. She was incredible."  Desperate to make meaning out of all I was feeling and thinking, I began plotting this blog post, but all I could truly nail down was- there is nothing like a new born baby.  And there is nothing like their parents either.




I also keep coming back to this quote from Call the Midwife:

 

This post is inspired by and dedicated to: my brother, my nieces, my nephews, and my son.

 

Felt, Glue, and Sweatpants

Last time I wrote, I was reflecting on my entrance into the world of mom, as if I had reached some pinnacle of nerdiness, but what did I really know?

On October 30th, at 10:00 pm, I found myself baking goodies for my son's Halloween party at school.  I cut the rice crispy treats apart and wrapped them quickly.   I still had a costume to make. 

At 11:00 pm, as I sewed the tail onto my son's Mickey Mouse shorts, I was again hit in the face with that feeling of being so...mom.  If my tone is negative, it is not intentional.  Each time I have this realization wash over me, the only feeling I have is complete surprise.   I don't think anyone can picture themselves gluing ears onto a headband in the late hours of the evening, nearly falling asleep in the process and therefore getting glue EVERYWHERE.  Even when I daydreamed about the future, this was a moment so insignificant that it warranted no time in the dreamscape. And yet when I found myself there it was absurdly normal and yet utterly shocking.  

Transition into mom-itude has been my greatest adventure.  Never before I have I become something different than I always have been. And yet still been just the same.  It is a strange dual reality that I have just recently entered into.  My years ahead are going to be filled with the beautiful mundane realities of child-raising, the incredible life-chaning moments that come with watching a tiny version of my DNA grow, learn, and become a person, and all the while some strange and wonderful blending of myself and my momself, will continue to occur.  Bringing me ever closer to earning the title, "Mama".

I have attached photos of the three Halloween costumes I have made for my son since his birth.  Each costume was made with felt, glue, and sweatpants.  (and love.)  This is the apex of my skill set.  The purchasing of over-priced costumes is in my very near future.  

The attachable turtle shell  (1 month old)

Han Solo (1 year old)

Mickey Mouse (2 year old)

Glimmering Mom-Nerd

They say that having a child changes you.  I knew and believed this when my husband and I contemplated bringing a baby into this world.  I knew that in immeasurable ways I would develop love, patience, and gratefulness unthinkable to my childless-self.  That internal dialogue was more than three years ago, and now, in throws of toddlerhood it just struck me again.

Have you ever looked at a mom and thought-what happened to you?  When did you become such a dork?  How you become so mom?

I think, dear friends, this is the change that all the "they"s have been talking about.

I ushered in the weekend with my son cuddled on my lap, bowl of popcorn in one hand, remote in the other.  I scrolled through the netflix options waiting for the "dat one!" seal of approval from my son.  I went through the tolerable movies but "No. No. No." was all I got.  Continuing to scroll and watching the choices get more and more painful, I finally heard the screetching that meant he had made his choice- Beverly Hills Chihuahua 3: Viva la Fiesta!

We watched the whole thing.  It was awful, but, on some weird level,  I didn't hate it.

My son also loves singing the classic nursery rhyme songs, but with his speech delays, he cannot sing them himself, so he demands that I sing them.  It is a sweet and simple thing to do together, but there are only so many times I can sing "Itsy Bitsty Spider", so looking for a reprieve I fired up the Pandora Kids station.  It was two hours after I pressed play that it dawned on me, that these high-pitched jams had been blasting, and I have barely noticed.  Some of the same kids songs that used to make my skin hurt when I would babysit in my teens, were now tolerable, and in-fact not so unpleasant. In fact, we both clapped with "C is for Cookie" came on. 

Something is happening here.  I may still watch documentaries and weird indie movies that leave me feeling confused and doubtful of reality after 8 pm, but in daylight its cgi dogs making jokes and getting into shenanigans in a hotel.  I am like a vampire, but less cool.  Dark and interesting by night and glimmering, mom-nerd in the daylight.

And so I wrap up this post because the hokey pokey is on.  And dangit..

How to Succeed at Concerts While Really Flippin' Trying

I took a toddler to a concert. Maybe not my best idea, but I learned some valuable tips that I will share to other parents who also happen to like going to shows.

1.  Check the ticket policy.  I walked into the venue, little man strapped to my chest, and approached the will-call window.  I gave the lady my id and she gave me an envelope with one ticket in it.  "You need a ticket for that baby", she says unflinching.  "Oh, no, he doesn't need a seat, he will be on my lap the whole time." I retort.  "Doesn't matter.  He needs a ticket."  She starts typing on her magic ticket machine and informs me that there are not two empty seats next to each other.  Quickly, my eyes well up with tears.  I had drove several hours, with a toddler, bundled him in a carrier, it was past his bed time, I was overwhelmed, oh, and I was doing this alone. Seeing the panic on my face, a manager took sympathy and wrote me what was essentially a seat pass and let me in.

2. EVERYBODY will have something to say (with their words or actions).  My general life motto is fly under the radar, but dadgum if I wasn't a spectacle in that crowd.  Inquisitive looks in the lobby were unsettling so I rushed in to auditorium.  I took my seat.  When my son bumped into the lady next to me, she stood up and switched with the person she came with.  Later, when his foot bumped her leg, she picked it up and moved it.  Irritation and judgment all over her face.  Feeling beaten down, I snuck out before the intermission and stood alone in the lobby to collect my thoughts and debate staying. Not more than five minutes later, the crowds flooded into the lobby.  A sweet woman sought me out and tapped my shoulder, "I love that you brought your child.  His little happy sounds were great!" she grinned. A few others smiled and made nice comments.  I should have been able to revel in them, but I was stuggling to get over the initial experience with my seat neighbor. and the lady at will call.

3. Stuff every pocket with fruit snacks.  Fruit snacks are a real treat in our house, even the fruit and veggie kind are limited to every once in a while.  When he started to churn and get antsy (and loud), out came the fruit snacks and all silence befell upon us.  Mistakenly, I only had one pack, next time, I will have ten.

4. Accept that you will not be comfortable.  I had tried holding my son on my lap, but he got squirmy and didn't want to sit still any longer.  I put him back in the carrier, but I could not sit down.  I creatively tried to lean on things or rest a cheek on the chair rail, but alas, comfort was not mine to have.  With my 30 pound babe strapped to my chest, I took my place in the dark eaves of the concert hall, and gave in to the mama sway.  For 90 minutes, we swayed, sang, and affirmed my initial motivations in undertaking this challenge- sharing something meaningful with my son, because ever since he was born I have wanted to show him the world and beautiful things it took me nearly 30 years to discover.

5. If you feel like going somewhere, even if it is somewhere that is severely inconvenient with a toddler but going there will restore some part of yourself that may have been unfed since becoming a parent, try it.  It may be really hard most of the time, but perhaps you too will leave with a memory of dancing your child to sleep with their little head on your chest as you sing:

Cheers parents!  May your children know good music and may your lyrical soul be satisfied.

Lyrics from "Method Acting/Cortez the Killer" by the Dave Rawlings Machine.  Listen here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gxPTQDP2bRQ