Headbands and Shin Guards

I haven’t written a Lila post in a while.  She’s almost 7 and is, as my grandfather would say, “a pistol.”  I’m not sure how that term got started and it might be more accurate if it referenced a piston in the engine, but the driving, exploding power would be the same, I guess.  She’s a force. 

I’ve often marveled at other mothers’ stories of taking their kids to the emergency room, explaining away bumps and bruises, getting stitches, etc.  It seemed a little crazy to me because Jack wasn’t like that, but now I know.  Because Lila is. 

This is not a girl who avoids getting dirty.  She is constantly on the move.  She runs everywhere.  (That’s another thing mothers were always saying…)  But she really does.  Up the stairs, down the stairs, to get the mail.  Everything at a run.  She falls down 4, maybe 5 times a day.  She hits her head.  She gets splinters.  She’s scratched up.  The other day I noticed she had abrasions all over her face: on her nose, lip and cheek.  She didn’t even know where they had come from, even though she had clearly face-planted somewhere, pretty hard.

And that’s ok.  She usually gets up laughing.  Because she laughs a lot.  And she makes everyone around her laugh, too.  She has a truly great giggle that easily turns into a fantastic belly laugh. 

We got to see all of this in action this weekend at her first soccer game. 

ASIDE

I say this is her first soccer game.  It’s not.  We tried soccer when she was 4 or so because, well… because of all the reasons above.  She was crazy active.  It was a huge fail.  She was so excited to get to the field for every practice and game, then totally freaked out.  She cried and screamed and neither my tow-the-line parenting nor Josh’s complimentary cajoling could get her to play.  Every practice.  Every game.  All season.  Anyway…

ASIDE OVER

So, in her “first” soccer game, Lila was a badass.  First off, she was adorable.  I love soccer girls, with their braids and curls and cute faces, contrasting with their accouterments of war (shin guards.)  They mean business, those little girls.  Or, at least, mine did. 

She was chewing gum furiously.  I’m not sure where she got it, but she was working it.  She had an intense look on her face.  Sometimes she was practicing her whistling, so she had this little lips- pursed look, face all scrunched.  She never lost focus.  And that’s where this game was so different from all the other games for us, I think.  Jack was always spacing out, playing with grass, playing with his hair, whatever.  There was none of that.  None.  Every moment that ball was in play, her eyes were on it.  She was ON IT. 

She ran.  Everywhere.  It was like all those trips up the hill to the mailbox were just training for this moment.  I never realized she was fast.  Apparently, she is.  She never gave up.  She never stopped. 

Let me be clear, she has no soccer skills.  Footwork is not her thing.  And her left foot is never even considered as a kicking option.  But what she does have is… no fear.  She was up in there on every play.  She’s a defensive maniac.  You come up against her and she is going to do her best to get that ball away from you and going in the right direction.  If you knock her to the ground, she will be kicking at the ball from the ground and using her body to get in front of you. 

She’s a scrapper.  I’d forgotten that word until now, but it’s perfect.  She’ll go to the ground fighting, get up fighting, and fight until the whistle is blown.  In a group of 6-yr-old girls, it’s a little terrifying.

And there’s my moment.  Watching was awesome.  I was so proud, but I was also a little scared for my girl.  Not that she’s get kicked in the face, because she’d shake that off or we’d get stitches.  We could get past that trauma.  I was scared that somehow, someway, she’ll lose that fearlessness, that joy.  That’s what it is, at its heart – joy.  She pursued with all her soul that little round ball and, in doing so, had a tremendous amount of fun.

And I was sitting there afraid for the moment when she’d lose that feeling, when she’ll “grow up” or get coached out of it, or have someone tell her it isn’t lady-like. That trauma is harder to heal.

But that’s on me.  That’s my issue.  My work is to keep myself from being the person who sets up artificial boundaries for my girl.  I have to believe that a piece of that fierce, competitive girl is alive in me, and that I will protect it in my child and not worry about what else is out there.  My work is to continue to encourage her to be proud of being strong and fast and fearless.  Maybe sometimes I can be a little bit afraid for her, because that’s a mom’s job, too.  Maybe I shouldn’t let her chew gum while she’s running like that.  And I did tell her you can’t play from the ground, you’ve got to be on your feet to play. 

Here’s hoping she always stays on her feet.

******

This makes me think of a poem I wrote for Lila a while back…

A Wish for My Girl

I hope the wind is kind when this one flies, or

starts to fly, falls, and flies again.  The nest is

too quiet.

She will see the sky, gilded

clouds moving farther away and leap

to touch, never considering the ground.  She is the one

who sees the wide beach, pitted and soft, reflecting light, and stops. 

Filled with joy.  Will stand, arms out, and breathe open

her love with big gusts of happiness.

My fear: that the sun will claim her scorching

faith in speed and flying laughter, that she will not see

she is the source of golden light.

And, I hope the wind is kind.

Same School, Different Planet: the exceptional child

I have two children.  They are both a handful in their way.  Jack came first, and because he was a great kid, we had another one.  Seriously.  I don’t think Lila would have come along if I hadn’t been sure that we could make another one just as awesome.  And we did.  Different, but no less awesome. 

There are the obvious differences: age, gender, personality, abilities.  Today’s post is about the personality and abilities.  But also about how those difference play out in school.  We’re two years in to both of them being in public school and their paths have been vastly different already.  Lila is “average.”  Jack is “exceptional.”  Their little universes are worlds apart. (See what I did there?)  I guess it’s no surprise that their school experiences would be so different.  But it has been.  At least to me.

And I know I’m not alone in this because I have so many friends who have kids who are on the spectrum or have kids who are special needs: ADD, dyslexia, sensory issues, etc.  In fact, parents with a whole bushel of average kids are the odd ones out.  But even if you don’t have a kid who has a diagnosis, if you have multiple kids you know they are very different creatures.  They learn differently, interact with people differently, and have to be parented differently.

So in our house we are struggling with those differences.  Jack is a freaking genius at some things, but he can’t modulate behavior changes to adapt to what is around him.  “Simple” things-- like stopping when someone says stop—are really hard for him, and it’s nearly impossible for us not to get frustrated.  He makes weird sounds.  He doesn’t respond to people who try to talk to him.  He doesn’t have a handle on his emotions and he doesn’t have the same level of emotional independence as his peers (he’ll still crawl in my lap.)  However, he still has those damn pre-teen emotions: desire to be liked, social disappointments, pressure to please his parents and teachers, and the ever-present need to pester his sister.  From a parental viewpoint, it’s overwhelming.  Some things just can’t be changed, no matter how you parent.  It’s his brain; whatever caused it has already caused it.  It ain’t going away.  I just don’t want him to be stripped of his confidence because of it.  I think our role as parents is, first, to love him and, second, teach him to love himself.  He doesn’t have a chance if he doesn’t like himself.  He’ll collapse inward and be depressed before he’s out of middle school.  I want him to see himself as I see him – as a sort of exploding star of awesomeness.  He could either become a black hole or light a universe. 

Enter, school. 

Jack was born August 19.  When he started Kindergarten, the cutoff was sept 1^st.  We went back and forth about holding him back because he was young and small and a boy.  But he was also really, really ready for some real school.  We took him to the little assessment thing they do for entering kindergarteners and he blew the assessor away: taking a chapter book off the shelf and reading it to her, doing math in his head, telling her facts about space.  She said we would be doing him a disservice not to put him in kindergarten.  So he started kindergarten when he was 4.

Fast forward 6 years.  He just started 5^th grade.  On one level, he is fantastic.  He has never been below the 99^th percentile on any standardized test he’s taken.  He reads at a college level, about 150 words a minute.  He finishes his work early and his teacher almost always says Jack forces them to push their curriculum all the way to its edges and beyond.  But he also struggles.  He’s been bullied.  He’s teased and excluded.  He crosses social boundaries: touching kids who don’t want to be touched, arguing with teachers, showing difficulty in working with others.  In 3^rd grade, he had a particularly vicious teacher who publicly, repeatedly shamed him, and he spent most of that year separated from the class, facing the back wall of the classroom.  It is my greatest regret that I didn’t pull him from that class as soon as I saw the signs.  I tried to work with the system and I wish I hadn’t.  The only benefit from the year is that we had him tested (in the school and independently) and that information has been really helpful. 

And 4^th grade was better.  He had a “cool” teacher who is fun and genuinely liked Jack; he saw Jack as a kid rather than a problem.  There’s a second teacher in the classroom all day, and she worked with Jack to keep him organized and focused on the task at hand (instead of reading the books he has hidden in his desk.)  He has more friends.  He’s happier.  So I’m happier. 

However, I’m not sure if he’s really reaching his full, exploding-star potential.  He’s capable of above grade level work in every subject, which he’s not allowed to access.  He’s limited to a library of books that are below his reading level.  Most glaringly, there are absolutely no resources or “interventions” to help Jack with his needs: social interaction.  It has become clear that general socialization with average kids does not rub off on Jack.  He needs extra help, but it is not available (through the school.)  He’s doing just fine, but we have to figure out if “just fine” is enough.

Now, let’s contrast Lila.  She’s average, remember.  And she’s thriving.  She went into kindergarten unable to read, enthralled with finger paints, and sometimes forgetting the number 14 when she counted to 20.  She has progressed like a bat outta hell.  She loves it.  It is perfect for her.  I have no reservations that she is in the right place.  It almost feels too easy.  And her experience this past year has shown me what school is supposed to be like for a kid – and for the parents.

For Jack, it has always felt like I was trying to walk down the center of a ship when it’s being tossed in the waves: always off balance, always trying to get back to center, sometimes thrown to the deck.  Lila’s path is one through an open field of flowers, end clearly visible, everything sunny.  This is the difference between school for an average kid and school for a kid who is not average.  School is designed for the average.  In some ways, it simultaneously creates and demands average.

I always did well in school.  For the most part, I’m a very well-behaved human being.  Laugh if you like, but I rarely break the rules.  And here’s a secret: I don’t think that’s necessarily a good thing.  I’m too influenced by authority figures.  I want my kids to respect their teachers, elders, and – of course – parents, but I also want them to question and take chances.  I want their definition of success to be their custom creation. 

The school’s definition of success dooms Jack to failure.  He will not be able to sit still.  He will not encourage collaboration in the group projects.  He will not sit quietly.  He disrupts.  He challenges.  He rebels when treated unfairly.  I don’t think any of these things are bad, unless he’s hurting someone else’s ability to learn.  But in school, all these things are bad.

Jack is the one who gave me the title of this entry.  I’m not even sure what he was talking about – maybe how different 4^th grade is from kindergarten.  Regardless, he has it right.  He and Lila go to the same elementary.  We walk the same sidewalk to school.  I let them go through the same doors every morning.  It’s the same school.  But it’s a different planet.  

The Impossible Notion of Balancing Compost

I compost. Well, I try.  I gather all my scraps from the kitchen and put them in this big, stinky, buggy barrel and give it a couple of twirls.  There’s supposed to be some thing where I balance the brown stuff with the green stuff to get the proper PH, etc.  I don’t really care about that.  I’m just glad to not have stinky kitchen trash and I’m happy because I get to feel like I’m doing the right thing.  And that’s the thing.  I’m trying really hard to feel like I’m doing the right thing. 

Because you really can’t always do the right thing.  You can try.  Feed your family organic foods.  But not just organic foods, vegan foods.  Not just vegan, but local vegan.  Be active in your kids’ schools.  Not just active, but be the room parent.  Don’t just be the room parent, be the Pinterest parent (or the guest teacher parent.)  No, no, no.  Don’t just volunteer at the school and give tons of money, home school your kid.  Be a stay at home mom.  But not a lazy stay at home mom!  Be the SAHM who makes every day a loving, learning experience.  But wait!  Maybe not a SAHM.  Be a working mom, who succeeds at every level: promotions, great work clothes, AND come home patient and alert to the needs of your child.  Meet all the needs for your husband.  Be a full partner in the marriage.  Or… maybe not a real full partner, because he needs to feel masterful and stuff.  And, of course, lots of vigorous sex.  Totally present, wild, but also tenderly intimate sex.  Because you’re not tired at all. 

I mean, really.

It truly is impossible.  And that’s just the stuff you do for everyone else.

Motherhood, being a woman, is an everchanging series of turning points.  You have choices, from the time you’re reasonably self-aware, about what kind of person you want to be.  Motherhood requires that you also – to a certain extent – decide what kind of person you want to raise.  You are responsible for raising a healthy, well-rounded, kind, principled, contributing member of humanity.  It can be consuming.  Sometimes I question how consumed some moms (parents!) can be. 

I see a whole population of people who did very well in excellent schools, had successful jobs, are competitive and driven, and who just happen to be female and had babies.  Some of them quit those jobs and have put all their drive into raising their little ones.  This is good and bad.  It’s good because my compatriots are killing it.  They are mommying their hearts out.  They are doing it all right.   The kids have every resource.  Their lunches are packed.  They have piano, soccer, AND thai chi.  They get tutored.  They have awesome birthday parties.  To me, it feels like too much.  The kids don’t seem damaged.  Maybe a bit more anxious than I remember being, but not spoiled or incapable.  A little ungrateful.  A little naïve.  But hey, they’re kids. 

So what’s bad?  It’s the moms.  Their ambition finds new avenues: triathlons, home sales businesses, arts and crafts.  (I don’t judge.  I’m describing myself here. ) They may have a kind of desperate look around the eyes and restless hands.  They drink a lot of wine.  They’ll tell you they’re happy and that they’re lucky.  I don’t think they’re wrong.  Necessarily.

There’s a conflict.  Women are presidential candidates (president?) and Supreme Court judges and CEOs of IT companies.  We are also nurturers and home builders.  Both identities are really hard to maintain.  I would argue that they are doubly hard to maintain at the same time.  However – and this is my thing today – I think there is painful cost when a mother denies one or the other.  That balance, though, it is very nearly impossible to reach.  Forget that; it IS impossible.  There’s guilt, or unfulfilled potential, or some unnamed feeling that you just aren’t doing it all right, no matter which choices you make. 

So I’m taking the little victories and trying to be ok with them.  I’m making a little bit of money after years of being more or less totally dependent.  The kids have really crazy hair and mismatched socks, but they go to school (fairly) clean and happy.  They aren’t perfect and I’m pretty sure they don’t expect life – or their mother – to be.  I am learning new things. I am confident.  I meet new people and make new friends. I fail. I keep trying. 

And when I finish typing this, I’ll take the batch of kitchen scraps that prompted this post to the compost bin.  I’ll congratulate myself on trying to do the right thing.  I’ll have some regret that I’m not balancing it the way I should.   I’ll spin the wheel.