With school starting again, I have been a little anxious about how my youngest will fare out back in a traditional group setting. Tiny Man is best one-on-one and gets bored easily. He is, as I have told his teacher, THAT child in the classroom-- the one that stands out, the one that doesn't conform, and often cluelessly so. I understand the exasperation of his teachers, as I am drawn to that point myself some days; it is hard to be THE mother of THAT child. At least now, with some of his acts of defiance in the past, I can find those things amusing.
Late last year, I was called by the assistant principal because my five-year-old son had, according to her report, kicked and punched three kids while waiting in the lunch line. It wasn't the first call I had, and wouldn't be even close to the last. When I picked him up from school, I told him that sometimes I was embarrassed to be his mother.
"Why?" Tiny whined.
"You beat up three kids at school today!" I snapped. My son's brow furrowed in a moment of confusion and he quickly corrected me, "It was TWO!"
You see my point. Months before, I had gotten a tired and irritable email from his teacher who wrote to document all the craziness he had performed that day, and then added that right at the moment she was writing, he was flicking balls of foil around the room and refusing to follow the Spanish teacher's directions. He had worn everyone completely out.
"This is precisely why I don't teach anymore," I responded. "Good luck with that."
Honestly, we worked very hard with his teacher to help shape my son's mischief into bouts of productivity and compliance. For every good effort he made at school, we rewarded it at home. For his more disruptive episodes, we withdrew privileges. And yes, headway was made. This year, we have taken a more proactive approach knowing what we know about our son and what he tends to do, such as why, for example, he might have lost bus riding privileges last year.
"Son," I said on the first morning of school. "Keep it in your pants on the bus. Understand?"
Tiny heaved a sigh of massive resignation. "Okaaaayyyyy."
Showing posts with label school. Show all posts
Showing posts with label school. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Friday, November 4, 2011
Baby-Daddy
My daughter is a minority at her school, which is about two-thirds African American. I think this is a good experience for her, as she learns to get along with kids whose backgrounds differ a little from hers. Occasionally, she will come home using an expression that is specific to that culture. Last night, for example, she asked if I could buy her some lotion. "My skin is so ashy," she said. As she adopts vocabulary and tries on expressions, she will sometimes come home with something I wasn't quite ready to hear:
"Mom, Coach told us not to be those girls that have four or five different baby-daddies. What's a baby-daddy?"
We had been walking out of my son's school, another mother some steps ahead of us. I was stunned into silence, but when the mom turned to say, "Good luck with that. We just had that conversation last week," I burst into laughter. Yes, I explained it. I explained the coach's trying to set a standard for the girls. "There are young ladies at your school who fall into this category," I said, "because their moms had one relationship, had a baby out of it, moved onto the next boyfriend, and did it again. Sometimes, you'll see entire families where there is no committed relationship and a string of children from different men. It makes for great instability and uncertainty in a family. It's not good for society. She was just trying to tell you all to make good choices."
I thought I had done very well here until my daughter asked if her step-mother could claim such a label. After clarifying the difference in the relationship and reminding my daughter that her step-mom cares greatly for her, I searched for the right words to stop my daughter from repeating "baby-daddy" and getting herself (or me) into a pickle. My little boy had the right idea. "It's not nice!" he stated emphatically. No, it's not nice at all, but it sure was worth a good chuckle.
"Mom, Coach told us not to be those girls that have four or five different baby-daddies. What's a baby-daddy?"
We had been walking out of my son's school, another mother some steps ahead of us. I was stunned into silence, but when the mom turned to say, "Good luck with that. We just had that conversation last week," I burst into laughter. Yes, I explained it. I explained the coach's trying to set a standard for the girls. "There are young ladies at your school who fall into this category," I said, "because their moms had one relationship, had a baby out of it, moved onto the next boyfriend, and did it again. Sometimes, you'll see entire families where there is no committed relationship and a string of children from different men. It makes for great instability and uncertainty in a family. It's not good for society. She was just trying to tell you all to make good choices."
I thought I had done very well here until my daughter asked if her step-mother could claim such a label. After clarifying the difference in the relationship and reminding my daughter that her step-mom cares greatly for her, I searched for the right words to stop my daughter from repeating "baby-daddy" and getting herself (or me) into a pickle. My little boy had the right idea. "It's not nice!" he stated emphatically. No, it's not nice at all, but it sure was worth a good chuckle.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Adolescent Mindset and Indolence
You remember how I so piteously wrung my hands over what I perceived as a learning disorder that was affecting my daughter. We visited a therapist, had her tested, met with a team of counselors and teachers at school, re-examined and restructured aspects of our lives to accommodate her social, familial, and academic needs--and we finally found the name of her learning disorder: laziness and lack of accountability. This mess is all my daughter's choice and making.
Combating laziness has been a bit of a challenge. I have employed a string of strategies to motivate or punish. Long story short? It ain't working, at least not consistently. And she isn't even belligerent about it. She can be happy or sometimes a bit diffident. This stumps me.
"Oh," says my Chicken Little in her characteristic sing-song, "in school today I got a 56, 59, 96, and a 100!"
"Whoa, whoa!!" I say, "Back up there!"
This is not an uncommon conversation at my house. I spent the first part of the year micromanaging homework, tutoring, questioning, writing practice tests, drilling, and double checking. I spent the next part of the year giving my daughter more decision-making and authority over her own work. I have spent the last part of this school year beating my head against the wall.
I pooled my Facebook friends for advice. I consulted my parents, neighbors, ex-husband, current husband, school teachers, and parents of classmates. I have grounded her with isolation in her room, taken away her computer, her phone, her Breyer horses, her playtime with neighbor children, her riding lessons, television watching, Wii, et cetera. I have tried to reward with the concept of earning back her Breyer horses and those other things, earning dollars for grades (a last resort that makes me feel cheap and desperate), verbal praise, computer game time, treats at a local cafe, and more. Today's announcement about the poor grades at least came with tears. Of all the things that have negatively affected our little bird, making her spend time in her room all afternoon seems to be the worst. (Of course, I like this because she isn't downstairs fighting with her brother.)
The weak grades aren't predictable; sometimes she fails a math test and other times a social studies test. The next week, math is up, but language arts suffers. I give up. Seriously. I told my ex that we just need to get her through the year. You can only lecture a child about the value of persistence so much.
Newsflash from the parents of grown children who laugh when I tell them what she is and isn't doing in school: This is all her. There is nothing you can do, but keep trying, and keep letting her be accountable.
It's not okay. As a former teacher, I feel like a failure. And as I tell my daughter, I am tired of it, no longer know what to do, and only she can embrace the idea that hard work is essential to success. I have tweaked her diet, added vitamins, made sure occasional treats were in place (so we weren't ridiculously strict), added mommy-and-daughter time into the schedule, given her privacy and quiet for study, added sleep time to her night routine, given her the privilege of reading time, and more. I have tried supervising closely and stepping back to give her more control.
She complained this year that she would not be going to the private middle school that two of her good friends will be attending. I foolishly thought this might be the motivator. "Such a bummer," I said, "but they test you to get into those places. Ds and Fs aren't allowed." This was news to her, and appeared momentarily to awaken her, but ultimately has made no difference.
Next year, she will attend the city middle school that so many rigorously academic parents have criticized for being, well, less rigorous. I welcome this opportunity. A change of pace is just what she needs. With its focus on art and music, the school has chosen to avoid teaching to standard test material. Instead, the principal has spoken to parents about teaching the children how to get along with all kinds--the true melange of city population in a more deliberately paced academic atmosphere as opposed to the higher middle class white enrollment of many of our Christian private schools. Sitting in the middle school auditorium, a room which boasted beautiful wood floors, a set of symphony-issued harps, and classic 1930s architectural details, I listened to the principal speak of his students as the people they were, their accomplishments, and the fact that this school represented our city's history. I was sold. My daughter, having attended the middle school as a prospective student in a shadowing capacity, found herself swayed by a concept I had forgotten entirely: the opposite gender.
I'm screwed, aren't I?
Combating laziness has been a bit of a challenge. I have employed a string of strategies to motivate or punish. Long story short? It ain't working, at least not consistently. And she isn't even belligerent about it. She can be happy or sometimes a bit diffident. This stumps me.
"Oh," says my Chicken Little in her characteristic sing-song, "in school today I got a 56, 59, 96, and a 100!"
"Whoa, whoa!!" I say, "Back up there!"
This is not an uncommon conversation at my house. I spent the first part of the year micromanaging homework, tutoring, questioning, writing practice tests, drilling, and double checking. I spent the next part of the year giving my daughter more decision-making and authority over her own work. I have spent the last part of this school year beating my head against the wall.
I pooled my Facebook friends for advice. I consulted my parents, neighbors, ex-husband, current husband, school teachers, and parents of classmates. I have grounded her with isolation in her room, taken away her computer, her phone, her Breyer horses, her playtime with neighbor children, her riding lessons, television watching, Wii, et cetera. I have tried to reward with the concept of earning back her Breyer horses and those other things, earning dollars for grades (a last resort that makes me feel cheap and desperate), verbal praise, computer game time, treats at a local cafe, and more. Today's announcement about the poor grades at least came with tears. Of all the things that have negatively affected our little bird, making her spend time in her room all afternoon seems to be the worst. (Of course, I like this because she isn't downstairs fighting with her brother.)
The weak grades aren't predictable; sometimes she fails a math test and other times a social studies test. The next week, math is up, but language arts suffers. I give up. Seriously. I told my ex that we just need to get her through the year. You can only lecture a child about the value of persistence so much.
Newsflash from the parents of grown children who laugh when I tell them what she is and isn't doing in school: This is all her. There is nothing you can do, but keep trying, and keep letting her be accountable.
It's not okay. As a former teacher, I feel like a failure. And as I tell my daughter, I am tired of it, no longer know what to do, and only she can embrace the idea that hard work is essential to success. I have tweaked her diet, added vitamins, made sure occasional treats were in place (so we weren't ridiculously strict), added mommy-and-daughter time into the schedule, given her privacy and quiet for study, added sleep time to her night routine, given her the privilege of reading time, and more. I have tried supervising closely and stepping back to give her more control.
She complained this year that she would not be going to the private middle school that two of her good friends will be attending. I foolishly thought this might be the motivator. "Such a bummer," I said, "but they test you to get into those places. Ds and Fs aren't allowed." This was news to her, and appeared momentarily to awaken her, but ultimately has made no difference.
Next year, she will attend the city middle school that so many rigorously academic parents have criticized for being, well, less rigorous. I welcome this opportunity. A change of pace is just what she needs. With its focus on art and music, the school has chosen to avoid teaching to standard test material. Instead, the principal has spoken to parents about teaching the children how to get along with all kinds--the true melange of city population in a more deliberately paced academic atmosphere as opposed to the higher middle class white enrollment of many of our Christian private schools. Sitting in the middle school auditorium, a room which boasted beautiful wood floors, a set of symphony-issued harps, and classic 1930s architectural details, I listened to the principal speak of his students as the people they were, their accomplishments, and the fact that this school represented our city's history. I was sold. My daughter, having attended the middle school as a prospective student in a shadowing capacity, found herself swayed by a concept I had forgotten entirely: the opposite gender.
I'm screwed, aren't I?
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Define Normal
Occasionally, I post conversations with my fifth grade daughter here. They have been funny and entertaining until recently, when other things about her behavior have started to suggest that a visit to the doctor is required. All of this is frustrating, fills me with both a terrible sense of urgency to help her, and yet gives me hope that finally, after years of enduring what we thought were personality quirks, there is an answer that will give her a new sense of focus and take care of certain compulsions that she has. Life here will change for the better.
Last night, I talked about a recent conversation with my daughter where I said, in a moment of complete quiet and joy, how much I love her and how I treasure her company. Her response: “Mom, if you were to throw chocolate in the ocean, would it float? What would happen to it?” Yesterday, again during a drive home from an errand, I paused to tell her again how much I enjoy being alone with her. She responded by asking, “Are we going to the grocery? Oh, wait, yes we are. I remember that.” Note that I had discussed the grocery with her as we got in the car after the last errand, discussed it again en route, and then suddenly she could not remember where we were going, nor could she realize that she is part of another conversation taking place.
This morning, my daughter lost her thumbdrive. We discovered this ten minutes before we were due to leave for school. Because she obsesses over certain things, and will toy and play with objects past the point that a child her age would, she had not followed repeated directions to safely store her drive in her school bag front pocket. I understand this, but even asking her about the homework’s back-up copy was hard:
“Sweetheart, did you save a copy of your presentation?” I asked gently.
“Well, I decided to study Mesopotamia and not do the Sumerians.”
“No, honey. Did you save a copy of your program on the computer?”
“Well, I did not want to do the Assyrians. There was nothing on the Assyrians,” she said.
“No, listen!” I said before asking again and slowly emphasing the words of my question. “Did you save a copy of the program you wrote on the hard drive of my computer?”
“Yes. Yes, I think so.”
She sat down at my desk, found her files, copied them to a new drive. When she was done, I brushed her hair and assured her that soon, we would see a doctor to help her. I said that she does things she cannot control, we know this, but she must try to remember, and try to meet us halfway. By the time I delivered both children to school, I was already exhausted with worry. I mailed the checklist and written interview that the pediatric psychologist had sent me last week. Both children will be evaluated, but for now, we have to wait for papers to be read and processed. For all of Tiny Man’s challenging behavior, his sister’s quiet and absent-minded ways have taken on a new meaning and her needs seem to overwhelm his right now.
I no longer get as angry. Even frustration is waning. Instead, I am moving to a sincere sadness. My daughter lives in her own world. She is suffering at school because of this. She is often lost in thought and I have to check her emotions. She forgets things, loses things, has a raging case of Pica, is unable to keep up with her classroom workflow, has incredible impulses regarding the need to shop, fidget, or dive into activities without waiting for instruction. Her grades yo-yo, homework takes 3 to 4 hours a night, she frequently wakes for potty breaks at night, and she seems discontent during her quiet moments.
Interestingly enough, her step-mother has been instrumental in helping support our daughter. This trouble is bringing us to a reconciliation that I had not anticipated, an unexpected blessing and relief in a time of hardship. Without this woman bravely coming forward and risking herself to my scrutiny and my ex-husband’s defensiveness, I might not have known as quickly what we think my daughter’s problem is, Attention Deficit and Hyperactivity Disorder. The step-mother assured me that ADHD is a multi-faceted problem. While my daughter does not exhibit overactive behaviors, she does all these other things that take away from life at home and at school. I am entirely grateful for this support and understanding.
For years, I was asked by strangers, friends, and family how I had raised such a sweet, cooperative daughter. I was told how lucky I was that she was so normal. Define normal. I had always thought she was, especially compared to so many kids I knew who were severely and profoundly challenged with physical and emotional disabilities. How, when, and why did this baby girl progress to suffer the challenges she faces?
We could have worse problems. We have already faced such things. There are remedies for my daughter’s issues and time is on our side. I know this. And I can be joyful that I have the support not just of my loving husband, but an ex-husband, his wife, the elementary school faculty, and my family. Soon, a doctor will be able to objectively examine both our children, make decisions, and eventually, everything will be okay—for a while before a new obstacle presents itself.
I guess you could say that’s normal.
Last night, I talked about a recent conversation with my daughter where I said, in a moment of complete quiet and joy, how much I love her and how I treasure her company. Her response: “Mom, if you were to throw chocolate in the ocean, would it float? What would happen to it?” Yesterday, again during a drive home from an errand, I paused to tell her again how much I enjoy being alone with her. She responded by asking, “Are we going to the grocery? Oh, wait, yes we are. I remember that.” Note that I had discussed the grocery with her as we got in the car after the last errand, discussed it again en route, and then suddenly she could not remember where we were going, nor could she realize that she is part of another conversation taking place.
This morning, my daughter lost her thumbdrive. We discovered this ten minutes before we were due to leave for school. Because she obsesses over certain things, and will toy and play with objects past the point that a child her age would, she had not followed repeated directions to safely store her drive in her school bag front pocket. I understand this, but even asking her about the homework’s back-up copy was hard:
“Sweetheart, did you save a copy of your presentation?” I asked gently.
“Well, I decided to study Mesopotamia and not do the Sumerians.”
“No, honey. Did you save a copy of your program on the computer?”
“Well, I did not want to do the Assyrians. There was nothing on the Assyrians,” she said.
“No, listen!” I said before asking again and slowly emphasing the words of my question. “Did you save a copy of the program you wrote on the hard drive of my computer?”
“Yes. Yes, I think so.”
She sat down at my desk, found her files, copied them to a new drive. When she was done, I brushed her hair and assured her that soon, we would see a doctor to help her. I said that she does things she cannot control, we know this, but she must try to remember, and try to meet us halfway. By the time I delivered both children to school, I was already exhausted with worry. I mailed the checklist and written interview that the pediatric psychologist had sent me last week. Both children will be evaluated, but for now, we have to wait for papers to be read and processed. For all of Tiny Man’s challenging behavior, his sister’s quiet and absent-minded ways have taken on a new meaning and her needs seem to overwhelm his right now.
I no longer get as angry. Even frustration is waning. Instead, I am moving to a sincere sadness. My daughter lives in her own world. She is suffering at school because of this. She is often lost in thought and I have to check her emotions. She forgets things, loses things, has a raging case of Pica, is unable to keep up with her classroom workflow, has incredible impulses regarding the need to shop, fidget, or dive into activities without waiting for instruction. Her grades yo-yo, homework takes 3 to 4 hours a night, she frequently wakes for potty breaks at night, and she seems discontent during her quiet moments.
Interestingly enough, her step-mother has been instrumental in helping support our daughter. This trouble is bringing us to a reconciliation that I had not anticipated, an unexpected blessing and relief in a time of hardship. Without this woman bravely coming forward and risking herself to my scrutiny and my ex-husband’s defensiveness, I might not have known as quickly what we think my daughter’s problem is, Attention Deficit and Hyperactivity Disorder. The step-mother assured me that ADHD is a multi-faceted problem. While my daughter does not exhibit overactive behaviors, she does all these other things that take away from life at home and at school. I am entirely grateful for this support and understanding.
For years, I was asked by strangers, friends, and family how I had raised such a sweet, cooperative daughter. I was told how lucky I was that she was so normal. Define normal. I had always thought she was, especially compared to so many kids I knew who were severely and profoundly challenged with physical and emotional disabilities. How, when, and why did this baby girl progress to suffer the challenges she faces?
We could have worse problems. We have already faced such things. There are remedies for my daughter’s issues and time is on our side. I know this. And I can be joyful that I have the support not just of my loving husband, but an ex-husband, his wife, the elementary school faculty, and my family. Soon, a doctor will be able to objectively examine both our children, make decisions, and eventually, everything will be okay—for a while before a new obstacle presents itself.
I guess you could say that’s normal.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Patron Saint of Napping Bundles
Today I had the honor of being a Patron Saint of Naps; I subbed at my son’s school during rest time. These kids are three and four, but under their blankies, sleep entranced, and lips pursed, they are once again babies. I had the pleasure of sitting between the two most nefarious nap-fighters, my son and his best friend. The instructions I was ordered to follow included: lay them tummy down, rub their backs, discourage noise. The boys were restless, but true to the promise of his teachers, sleeping and making little whuffles and buzzes after 20 minutes. Their partner in crime, a third boy of whose stubborn qualities we had not been warned, refused to co-operate at all and was not so precious. There was kicking. There was prodding. There was poking. There may even have been some grunting. The other mother in the room became exasperated and so I escorted the wee tyke out to the hallway.
“Buddy, you know there are sleeping kids in there.”
“Uh-huhhhhh.”
“And I know you cannot sleep today, but you need to be still and quiet.”
“Uh-huhhhh.”
“Bud, you can’t kick the floor and make banging sounds. It’s disrespectful to the sleeping children and to the teachers.”
“Uh-huhhhh.”
After a few more words of level-headed logic, I scooted him back to his cot, tucked him in, and started adjusting the blankets of his friends. Apparently, I was not as effective as desired. Of course, you knew this was coming. Boomp, boomp went heavy feet, poke, poke went little hands, and the other mother, after another diligent effort on her part, picked the child up, and carried him out and away from the lines of sleeping and more cooperative little people.
We never saw him again. He may have been bussed out and sent to stay with detainees at Guantanamo Bay as a form of torture—for them.
“Buddy, you know there are sleeping kids in there.”
“Uh-huhhhhh.”
“And I know you cannot sleep today, but you need to be still and quiet.”
“Uh-huhhhh.”
“Bud, you can’t kick the floor and make banging sounds. It’s disrespectful to the sleeping children and to the teachers.”
“Uh-huhhhh.”
After a few more words of level-headed logic, I scooted him back to his cot, tucked him in, and started adjusting the blankets of his friends. Apparently, I was not as effective as desired. Of course, you knew this was coming. Boomp, boomp went heavy feet, poke, poke went little hands, and the other mother, after another diligent effort on her part, picked the child up, and carried him out and away from the lines of sleeping and more cooperative little people.
We never saw him again. He may have been bussed out and sent to stay with detainees at Guantanamo Bay as a form of torture—for them.
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