I love talking to kids, my own and others. It's so fun to hear things from their perspective... the words they choose, the gestures that are new and fresh and whole-hearted.
Here are some of my favorite moments from chats with G recently.
Where is the summer? Where is summer, Mama? Oh, behind the clouds is the summerness.
I see them! I see telephone lions and power lions. Both lions!
L meanwhile, takes each and every opportunity to remind us of one thing.
me: L, are you hungry?
L: No, I'm a GIRL.
me: L, you are a silly thing.
L: No, Mama. I'm a GIRL.
L: Meooooow.
her daddy: L, are you pretending to be a cat?
L: No, I'm not a cat. I'm a GIRL!
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
a happy Mama's day
I had a wonderful day yesterday. I got to indulge in relaxed hours with my favorite people, feel warm spring sunshine, proclaim in admiration about a card that G actually made for me himself and signed his name, give my own mama a big hug and a gift that made her smile. It was a beautiful day and the best part about it was sharing it.
We called it Mama's day because it's easiest to talk to our four and two year olds about in the words we use. And I'm Mama to them, not Mother. Sometimes I'm Mom now too, especially when G is showing off his newest skills.
I hope you enjoyed mother's day too, whether you are a mom or no. It's all about love and that's worth celebrating and reveling in.
We called it Mama's day because it's easiest to talk to our four and two year olds about in the words we use. And I'm Mama to them, not Mother. Sometimes I'm Mom now too, especially when G is showing off his newest skills.
I hope you enjoyed mother's day too, whether you are a mom or no. It's all about love and that's worth celebrating and reveling in.
Friday, April 23, 2010
perplexasaur
Lately G has said That's like me several times while looking at pictures of Tyrannosaurus Rex.
The first time I was startled and asked him about it and he repeated it. I thought it was a little odd, but then L has been saying things that are strange and non traditional all the time so I figured it was a one time mystery.
Until it happened again. We were looking at a book where a T Rex is chasing other dinosaurs with a nasty grimace on his snout and G said happily That's like me; that's like G. I asked You're like a T Rex?
Yes!
Hmmm. I am now officially in mystery solving mode. I can come up with a handful of different ideas but I don't know if I'll ever have my curiosity and worry satisfied on this one.
Does this have to do with the anger expression and control issues he's working through?
Is is merely his favorite dinosaur?
Maybe he's scared of the T Rex and is associating himself with it to master his fear?
Maybe he's attracted to it's power and strength?
Does he see himself as what I would call a monster? (Oh please, $@#%ing tell me it's not this.)
(Now grasping at tiny straws...) Maybe he's confusing uses of the word like (I like that. vs. I am like that.)?
Regardless of what it means or how this makes sense in his head, it's a positive association for him and so I'm marking it down as a good thing. And I really hope that some day he can explain it to me. You know, so I don't worry anymore and because I bet it's an entertaining story.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
a schedule
this would be a very good day, according to G (4 yrs):
wake up
eat candies
play (computer) games
play with L
play with the dog
eat candies
We have been playing a new game lately I'm calling What Next? G asks What next? and waits until I or his Daddy answer, then immediately repeats What next? We run through actually planned activities as well as theoretical possibilities (and sometimes impossibilities) for the next hours, days weeks, years, etc. until G's Daddy and I can't take any more and heroically attempt to change the subject. Tonight when I got into several weeks in the future and said I was done, G came up with his own ideas about the next day.
wake up
eat candies
play (computer) games
play with L
play with the dog
eat candies
We have been playing a new game lately I'm calling What Next? G asks What next? and waits until I or his Daddy answer, then immediately repeats What next? We run through actually planned activities as well as theoretical possibilities (and sometimes impossibilities) for the next hours, days weeks, years, etc. until G's Daddy and I can't take any more and heroically attempt to change the subject. Tonight when I got into several weeks in the future and said I was done, G came up with his own ideas about the next day.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
fluid language
A 3 year old boy we are friends with and my 2 year old girl both did similar things I found interesting last week. He pointed at a baseball cap with a GAP logo that he was wearing and said, Know what it says? Jason. (Jason is his blogname.)
She pointed at her carseat which is inscribed with Eddie Bauer and said That's L... (her name.)
Neither of them can read yet but obviously both can recognize writing/lettering and know it represents meaningful words. It made me wonder. Do they realize that writing is static or do they think that it changes depending on the situation or person it's associated with? Do they think that the reader assigns meaning to the letters, making up a phrase based on the situation? Do they think the same way about writing and letters or is it different for each one?
I've always been fascinated by the idea that language is not one hundred percent accurate. There is some fluidity, some space for meaning and gesture and nuance that we assign individually and where it can only overlap so much with another's personal language experience. We never know what someone else is thinking exactly, maybe just mostly, or at other times not much at all. Certainly for my son with language issues this is even more true and makes it all the more astounding how close we are able to be to others even when we have muddy and vague understandings of each other's inner worlds.
I know the magic of putting the pieces together and learning how letters, words and reading work will come for my daughter and our friend Jason. I wonder what the magic of knowing that letters can have meaning but not knowing the rules is like. And I wonder about the experience of people who are nonverbal. And not so infrequently I wonder about the few children who were actually raised by wolves after being lost/abandoned by humans. How is that world?
How is your world?
She pointed at her carseat which is inscribed with Eddie Bauer and said That's L... (her name.)
Neither of them can read yet but obviously both can recognize writing/lettering and know it represents meaningful words. It made me wonder. Do they realize that writing is static or do they think that it changes depending on the situation or person it's associated with? Do they think that the reader assigns meaning to the letters, making up a phrase based on the situation? Do they think the same way about writing and letters or is it different for each one?
I've always been fascinated by the idea that language is not one hundred percent accurate. There is some fluidity, some space for meaning and gesture and nuance that we assign individually and where it can only overlap so much with another's personal language experience. We never know what someone else is thinking exactly, maybe just mostly, or at other times not much at all. Certainly for my son with language issues this is even more true and makes it all the more astounding how close we are able to be to others even when we have muddy and vague understandings of each other's inner worlds.
I know the magic of putting the pieces together and learning how letters, words and reading work will come for my daughter and our friend Jason. I wonder what the magic of knowing that letters can have meaning but not knowing the rules is like. And I wonder about the experience of people who are nonverbal. And not so infrequently I wonder about the few children who were actually raised by wolves after being lost/abandoned by humans. How is that world?
How is your world?
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
a very silly sort of girl
Two and a half is apparently a great age for amusing statements. Here are a few recent gems from L:
(Patting her own head) This is a big one!
I am so pooping! (Similar to I am so happy but this is a very angry statement, accented by loud screaming voice.)
I need lots of fingers! (Wiggling fingers around in front of her with an upset whining intonation.)
L: I want a yes.
me: A yes? What is a yes?
L: It's a yes for L!
I love listening to the big thoughts that come out of her tiny little mouth.
(Patting her own head) This is a big one!
I am so pooping! (Similar to I am so happy but this is a very angry statement, accented by loud screaming voice.)
I need lots of fingers! (Wiggling fingers around in front of her with an upset whining intonation.)
L: I want a yes.
me: A yes? What is a yes?
L: It's a yes for L!
I love listening to the big thoughts that come out of her tiny little mouth.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
I recently learned
1. Neutral ground for playdates is a really really good idea (and kids personal bedrooms are a bad space for learning how to share.)
2. You can find lots of clothes for 3 year old girls at thrift/consignment stores easily, but 5 year old boy clothing in good condition is a rare treasure.
3. L and I have very similar taste in clothing. She went through the shopping bag when we arrived home and picked out the two items I liked best and then demanded to try them on.
4. Even if it is the first day of sun and temps over fifty in months I will still get badly sunburnt in two hours (but my kids won't.)
5. Navigating the muddy waters of independence, cooperation and grace when things aren't the way you'd like is hard at 4 and still almost as hard at 30.
6. Computer game play is the only thing that will motivate G enough to actually poop on the toilet. Candy, toys, stickers, charts, praise, pleading and stories are not it.
7. It bothers me to hear someone use the word mainstream as a verb and specifically when it is their biggest goal for my child's educational future.
8. Food, games and activities are all much more appealing to 2 and 4 year olds when offered by peers and siblings than pesky adults.
9. The dog will actually eat a cigarette butt if we try to make him spit it out. Ugh!
10. G has developed an interest in the notion of a secret formula. (Where does he get this stuff?!) He named one of his animal creations Secret Formula and made sure his dad typed it out right for him.
2. You can find lots of clothes for 3 year old girls at thrift/consignment stores easily, but 5 year old boy clothing in good condition is a rare treasure.
3. L and I have very similar taste in clothing. She went through the shopping bag when we arrived home and picked out the two items I liked best and then demanded to try them on.
4. Even if it is the first day of sun and temps over fifty in months I will still get badly sunburnt in two hours (but my kids won't.)
5. Navigating the muddy waters of independence, cooperation and grace when things aren't the way you'd like is hard at 4 and still almost as hard at 30.
6. Computer game play is the only thing that will motivate G enough to actually poop on the toilet. Candy, toys, stickers, charts, praise, pleading and stories are not it.
7. It bothers me to hear someone use the word mainstream as a verb and specifically when it is their biggest goal for my child's educational future.
8. Food, games and activities are all much more appealing to 2 and 4 year olds when offered by peers and siblings than pesky adults.
9. The dog will actually eat a cigarette butt if we try to make him spit it out. Ugh!
10. G has developed an interest in the notion of a secret formula. (Where does he get this stuff?!) He named one of his animal creations Secret Formula and made sure his dad typed it out right for him.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
loud, crazy fun at the farm
We took an evening this weekend and went to a nearby farm. It was a lot of fun. It's a historic farm with lots of animals, old buildings to explore (many have been restored now) and various treasures to find hidden in the corners. We did have to watch out for a few angry geese, but all the other animals were friendly and well behaved.
G's favorite parts of the trip were climbing on the antique tractors they have stationed around the barns and twiddling with knobs (which happily do nothing these days) and cockadoodle-dooing back and forth with a rooster in a nearby tree. G let out a cockadoodle and then listened for the rooster to answer. If there was silence, he turned to me to ask "Rooster do it again Mama? Cockadoodle-doo again?"
L's favorite highlights were the loud noises of the sheep with small lambs as they called to eachother and sticking her nose right next to the rabbit hutches so she could announce if the rabbit in that house was a "biiig" rabbit or a "smaaaaaall" rabbit.
My favorite parts were the kids' enthusiasm as they ran all over excitedly and seeing a bit of sunshine.
G's favorite parts of the trip were climbing on the antique tractors they have stationed around the barns and twiddling with knobs (which happily do nothing these days) and cockadoodle-dooing back and forth with a rooster in a nearby tree. G let out a cockadoodle and then listened for the rooster to answer. If there was silence, he turned to me to ask "Rooster do it again Mama? Cockadoodle-doo again?"
L's favorite highlights were the loud noises of the sheep with small lambs as they called to eachother and sticking her nose right next to the rabbit hutches so she could announce if the rabbit in that house was a "biiig" rabbit or a "smaaaaaall" rabbit.
My favorite parts were the kids' enthusiasm as they ran all over excitedly and seeing a bit of sunshine.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
half full
I've been wrestling with questions here. Too many questions, not enough answers and an overall lack of good strong, appealing options to choose. The lesser of two evils... why is that a choice I have to make for my kid? Ugh. And then I have to wonder, what if the amount of evil is less but the damage done by that particular evil is more intense. The knots in my stomach are practically braiding themselves.
I've been thinking about Kindergarten. Not for me, for the little guy, G. The way things are set up, Kindergarten placement is in black and white. Regular Education and Special Education. I had beenobsessing over hoping that G would be accepted into the charter program called Open Classroom where they encourage parent involvement and participation as well as different approaches to learning in general. But we got a letter saying Nope! this past weekend, so I'm back to mulling over our limited options and researching the earliest date to reapply to Open Classroom for 1st grade.
What do I do when there is no good choice for my kid? How can I reconcile with that? I want things to be right, not bad or mediocre, not maybe, possibly pleaseGodpleaseGod okay. If it was just me, it wouldn't be so huge, but this is my baby, who I treasure above all else and who I want to see shine to the best of his ability. I'm thinking: It's the beginning of his education. Everything rests on the next few years, right? And then I realized that just because we think of school as the only place to learn, it doesn't mean that's accurate. G has done most of his learning at home, the fun stuff like animal noises and strange fish anatomy as well as the really hard trudges through frustrating and confusing concepts like asking permission (how and when), the idea that not making a choice is still a choice with consequences, and that sometimes your favorite shirt is dirty and therefore unwearable. School can be the extra, the addition to what we do at home. That will work for us. And if I need to show up frequently at school so that I canmake sure things are going well and I know what's happening in the classroom bring by fresh baked cookies and craft supplies I found in the cupboard at home, I will.
I know I am an idealist in life and certainly as a mom. It's not a bad thing, even though it can be frustrating. It keeps me wishing and hoping and looking and adjusting my perspective. Oh, how I wish that so many things weren't painted in black and white. Would it be so hard to have integrated, combined kinds of education continue throughout elementary schools? Why can't there be more alternative options.... homeschool groups that aren't formed based on religious beliefs, other public charter options, more different kinds of classrooms with different approaches? Why is it a choice between not enough help and not enough challenge?
G will keep learning and growing and charming the flowers out of the ground, just like he always has, and I will keep learning how to be as graceful as possible in the alien landscape of parenthood.
I've been thinking about Kindergarten. Not for me, for the little guy, G. The way things are set up, Kindergarten placement is in black and white. Regular Education and Special Education. I had been
What do I do when there is no good choice for my kid? How can I reconcile with that? I want things to be right, not bad or mediocre, not maybe, possibly pleaseGodpleaseGod okay. If it was just me, it wouldn't be so huge, but this is my baby, who I treasure above all else and who I want to see shine to the best of his ability. I'm thinking: It's the beginning of his education. Everything rests on the next few years, right? And then I realized that just because we think of school as the only place to learn, it doesn't mean that's accurate. G has done most of his learning at home, the fun stuff like animal noises and strange fish anatomy as well as the really hard trudges through frustrating and confusing concepts like asking permission (how and when), the idea that not making a choice is still a choice with consequences, and that sometimes your favorite shirt is dirty and therefore unwearable. School can be the extra, the addition to what we do at home. That will work for us. And if I need to show up frequently at school so that I can
I know I am an idealist in life and certainly as a mom. It's not a bad thing, even though it can be frustrating. It keeps me wishing and hoping and looking and adjusting my perspective. Oh, how I wish that so many things weren't painted in black and white. Would it be so hard to have integrated, combined kinds of education continue throughout elementary schools? Why can't there be more alternative options.... homeschool groups that aren't formed based on religious beliefs, other public charter options, more different kinds of classrooms with different approaches? Why is it a choice between not enough help and not enough challenge?
G will keep learning and growing and charming the flowers out of the ground, just like he always has, and I will keep learning how to be as graceful as possible in the alien landscape of parenthood.
Monday, February 8, 2010
time pains
I don't know exactly how much G understands about the concept of time as the Western world defines and values it, because he can't tell me, but from what I can glean, there are gaping holes. I know he doesn't understand months, or years. I don't think he understands weeks. I do think he knows what a day is, but if I say yesterday or tomorrow it doesn't seem to click for him. Anything past or future is most often out of reach in conversations. We live in the here and now, even when we don't want to. G does best with visual representations when he's learning and Time is pretty hard to show visually. How do you draw a picture of "If we have time after going the grocery store and the bank then maybe we can make playdough volcanoes"? We have calendars with pictures of activities, and he loves to look at clocks, but when I tell him we will make cookies in a little while, I don't know what he thinks I mean, or if he thinks I don't mean anything at all and am ignoring his request. Maybe he thinks I just pick what we are doing or not doing at any moment without there being any rules imposed on me in my decision making. Schooltime is not 12:40 p.m. but rather, whenever Mama decides it's time for school. I wish the world fitted itself around me. Then I could set my clock by my kids needs and desires.
We talk about days of the week and time but it's still our number one enemy right now. It is hard to accept schedules, changes of plan, specific orders of events when you don't know why it is the way it is. It's hard for G to live within the rules that most of us do. He has tantrums because we have to do something he doesn't want to do before something he really wants to do and he can't understand why. I wonder if he imagines the world is out to make him miserable, or that Mama makes every decision about everything like what days school is happening, when it is lunchtime, when we run out of his most beloved food: cheese, how long it takes to get home, whether or not it's sunny out, etc., etc. That's just they way it is does not impress him. In fact, it's an assemblage of words that means nothing to him as well as not explaining anything when we run into trouble. Occasionally I catch myself wishing he could just take "Because that's the way it works" as an answer, but then I remember that I was never satisfied with that kind of adult speak as a kid either. He wants to understand how everything works and doesn't, and that's a gift. And I'd definitely miss his thorough examinations of why things are the way they are if he didn't care, even though they quite frequently drive both of us into a state of utter frustration.
Now I'm off to the school playground to watch G play and then to convince him that time to go home is coming whether or not he wants it to.
We talk about days of the week and time but it's still our number one enemy right now. It is hard to accept schedules, changes of plan, specific orders of events when you don't know why it is the way it is. It's hard for G to live within the rules that most of us do. He has tantrums because we have to do something he doesn't want to do before something he really wants to do and he can't understand why. I wonder if he imagines the world is out to make him miserable, or that Mama makes every decision about everything like what days school is happening, when it is lunchtime, when we run out of his most beloved food: cheese, how long it takes to get home, whether or not it's sunny out, etc., etc. That's just they way it is does not impress him. In fact, it's an assemblage of words that means nothing to him as well as not explaining anything when we run into trouble. Occasionally I catch myself wishing he could just take "Because that's the way it works" as an answer, but then I remember that I was never satisfied with that kind of adult speak as a kid either. He wants to understand how everything works and doesn't, and that's a gift. And I'd definitely miss his thorough examinations of why things are the way they are if he didn't care, even though they quite frequently drive both of us into a state of utter frustration.
Now I'm off to the school playground to watch G play and then to convince him that time to go home is coming whether or not he wants it to.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
no good, very bad day
It was one of those days when things just seemed to keep going the wrong way. The water heater finally gave up on life. Much book keeping and accounting needed to be done and redone. Ugh. And then, G had a breakdown at his friends birthday party. You might think I'd be most upset by the major appliance failure or the utterly dreaded book keeping fiasco, but you'd be wrong.
The party was at a museum and we thoroughly enjoyed looking at dinosaur bones, doing crafts and a few songs. G was happy to wish his friend a happy birthday, meet some new people and check out some exhibits. Then G saw the collection of presents. His friends' mom had told me "no gifts" so I was unprepared for that and so was G. If I had known ahead of time I might have been able to prepare him, but I didn't and he wasn't. He insisted that he wanted the orange car he saw peeking out of a bag. I explained we had plenty of cars at home and we would try to find an orange one when we got there. It was a futile attempt. He began crying and insisting it was his own birthday so he could also have presents.
We stayed a few minutes, trying to calm down and finally went outside to cry for another twenty minutes or so. Finally he calmed down enough to go back and join the group, only to have well-meaning people try to talk to him and encourage him to be happy which sent him off into another bout of uncontrollable tears. I got our bag and went downstairs. He eventually calmed down. We met the kids coming out and he said thank you and I said I'm sorry. We walked down the hall and met G's dad and I dissolved into my own fit of tears.
It shouldn't be so hard, surprising or painful. But sometimes, it just hits me head-on. My boy doesn't know all the rules. I try my best to teach him, but there are many many things he just can't grasp. What's a yesterday, for example, and why on earth would I want to talk about it? My birthday's in the summer... what does that mean, besides no presents now? The word because... what's that all about? There's so much more, mostly the abstract kind of things, like time. It's really frustrating for G to live in a world where the rules don't make sense, or just seem plucked out of nowhere for the occasion. It's also really frustrating for me to try to bridge the gaps, and when I fail, to try to scrape some sense of togetherness and understanding we can share so the world doesn't feel so harsh and cruel and random.
Today I was sad for G, that he couldn't enjoy the rest of the party and that he couldn't understand and make peace with his friend getting presents today. I was worried about G causing stress or unhappiness for the other kids and parents at the party. And, I was embarrassed. And then guilty about feeling embarrassed. I understand where things went wrong and I don't blame him, but sometimes I just want things to be easy, without the need to explain. I shouldn't be embarrassed. What's wrong with me?! I love this kid! My buttons are bursting, I'm amazed by how much he's learned and how many steps he's taken toward the world most people inhabit. And yet, an afternoon like today comes and I am the one who is unable to function because of communication barriers. I am the one bawling in front of the ancient pottery shards while my now happy, curious boy wanders around drinking in natural history. I need to remember I'm a work in progress as much as my boy is, and take a few minutes here and there to think about where I am, who I am, who I want to be.
We came home and talked about it. G looked off to the side, obviously uncomfortable. I don't think if we went to another party tomorrow it would be alright, but if we talk it through enough, tell stories about birthdays and friends and parties, we're bound to get there sometime. I asked him to look at my eyes and listen while I told him I loved him. Now I will have tiramisu and hugs and hope and prepare for a happier day.
The party was at a museum and we thoroughly enjoyed looking at dinosaur bones, doing crafts and a few songs. G was happy to wish his friend a happy birthday, meet some new people and check out some exhibits. Then G saw the collection of presents. His friends' mom had told me "no gifts" so I was unprepared for that and so was G. If I had known ahead of time I might have been able to prepare him, but I didn't and he wasn't. He insisted that he wanted the orange car he saw peeking out of a bag. I explained we had plenty of cars at home and we would try to find an orange one when we got there. It was a futile attempt. He began crying and insisting it was his own birthday so he could also have presents.
We stayed a few minutes, trying to calm down and finally went outside to cry for another twenty minutes or so. Finally he calmed down enough to go back and join the group, only to have well-meaning people try to talk to him and encourage him to be happy which sent him off into another bout of uncontrollable tears. I got our bag and went downstairs. He eventually calmed down. We met the kids coming out and he said thank you and I said I'm sorry. We walked down the hall and met G's dad and I dissolved into my own fit of tears.
It shouldn't be so hard, surprising or painful. But sometimes, it just hits me head-on. My boy doesn't know all the rules. I try my best to teach him, but there are many many things he just can't grasp. What's a yesterday, for example, and why on earth would I want to talk about it? My birthday's in the summer... what does that mean, besides no presents now? The word because... what's that all about? There's so much more, mostly the abstract kind of things, like time. It's really frustrating for G to live in a world where the rules don't make sense, or just seem plucked out of nowhere for the occasion. It's also really frustrating for me to try to bridge the gaps, and when I fail, to try to scrape some sense of togetherness and understanding we can share so the world doesn't feel so harsh and cruel and random.
Today I was sad for G, that he couldn't enjoy the rest of the party and that he couldn't understand and make peace with his friend getting presents today. I was worried about G causing stress or unhappiness for the other kids and parents at the party. And, I was embarrassed. And then guilty about feeling embarrassed. I understand where things went wrong and I don't blame him, but sometimes I just want things to be easy, without the need to explain. I shouldn't be embarrassed. What's wrong with me?! I love this kid! My buttons are bursting, I'm amazed by how much he's learned and how many steps he's taken toward the world most people inhabit. And yet, an afternoon like today comes and I am the one who is unable to function because of communication barriers. I am the one bawling in front of the ancient pottery shards while my now happy, curious boy wanders around drinking in natural history. I need to remember I'm a work in progress as much as my boy is, and take a few minutes here and there to think about where I am, who I am, who I want to be.
We came home and talked about it. G looked off to the side, obviously uncomfortable. I don't think if we went to another party tomorrow it would be alright, but if we talk it through enough, tell stories about birthdays and friends and parties, we're bound to get there sometime. I asked him to look at my eyes and listen while I told him I loved him. Now I will have tiramisu and hugs and hope and prepare for a happier day.
Friday, January 29, 2010
the best pinecone
It's the last day of the school week and all the kids are tired. G and his friend (I'll call him Joshua) are rolling down the hill after class lets out. They find pinecones and roll those down. After a long twenty minutes of happy playing and successful sharing, trading and taking turns, there is a moment when they both reach for the same pinecone. It's a particularly nice one, very rich brown and intact compared with the other greyish, tattering pinecones. Neither or them is practiced at sharing but they are both working on it. Joshua grabs it first. G looks upset. Joshua looks equally grumpy. Joshua haltingly holds out the pinecone in his hand for G to take but as soon as it's in G's hand Joshua starts wailing. Joshua's dad and I try in vain to help prompt compromises and soothe overtired, overexerted 4 year old friends. No other pinecones will do for either boy.
In the end each of us carries a crying boy across the playground and down the sidewalk to the parking lot. G begins to quiet a few times, but hears Joshua and starts again. I ask if he wants to say goodbye to Joshua and he says no. We arrive at the car and he calms down a bit, asking for a hug. I pick him up and hug him and ask him if he's sad because Joshua was upset. He tells me: G and Joshua sad. (This is big! He isn't usually able to talk about more than one person's feelings at a time) I buckle him in his seat and he says: Show Daddy G and Joshua sad. Sometimes G wants to show Daddy an art project or other preschool treasure when he gets home. The idea of telling his dad about something important that happened to him, especially involving feelings... what a breakthrough!
I spend the entire car ride home fantasizing about G telling me stories of what he did at school today, how his friends feel about white and red striped race cars, how he came to be under a beanbag when a classmate sat on top of it (I heard that one from his teacher who thought it was funny and was concerned I might wonder how he got a scratch on his forehead.)
We get home and G runs into the house, still intent on telling his important news to his dad. I am thrilled. G and Joshua sad. Roll down hill, throw pinecones down hill. I wait as he talks, then fill in the blanks. Then I remark to my husband how lucky he is, to actually be hearing news about what happened at school from G, and that it's bigger news than just what flavor muffin they ate today. We all beam at eachother for a moment before G starts begging to play computer games.
In the end each of us carries a crying boy across the playground and down the sidewalk to the parking lot. G begins to quiet a few times, but hears Joshua and starts again. I ask if he wants to say goodbye to Joshua and he says no. We arrive at the car and he calms down a bit, asking for a hug. I pick him up and hug him and ask him if he's sad because Joshua was upset. He tells me: G and Joshua sad. (This is big! He isn't usually able to talk about more than one person's feelings at a time) I buckle him in his seat and he says: Show Daddy G and Joshua sad. Sometimes G wants to show Daddy an art project or other preschool treasure when he gets home. The idea of telling his dad about something important that happened to him, especially involving feelings... what a breakthrough!
I spend the entire car ride home fantasizing about G telling me stories of what he did at school today, how his friends feel about white and red striped race cars, how he came to be under a beanbag when a classmate sat on top of it (I heard that one from his teacher who thought it was funny and was concerned I might wonder how he got a scratch on his forehead.)
We get home and G runs into the house, still intent on telling his important news to his dad. I am thrilled. G and Joshua sad. Roll down hill, throw pinecones down hill. I wait as he talks, then fill in the blanks. Then I remark to my husband how lucky he is, to actually be hearing news about what happened at school from G, and that it's bigger news than just what flavor muffin they ate today. We all beam at eachother for a moment before G starts begging to play computer games.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
persevere. symptom? heroism?
Perseveration.
I use my own experiences as a compass on this journey. It's all I have. They are usually not too far off the mark. When I am working through something I perseverate. I replay a conversation over and over in my head. I change things, look at all the angles. Remember what each moment felt like. Imagine what the other person was feeling at each moment. Think about changing things. This is what I do when I feel helpless, when I feel lost, when I feel like angry.
My gut tells me this is what G is doing now when he perseverates. He is working on things. It may look, feel and be an enactment of being stuck. But it means he is thinking and feeling and working. This is good. He is growing, even when he is also pushing hard and going nowhere.
I think it's fascinating how perseveration is a problem, but perseverance is one of those words you might find on an inspirational poster. They are so close. One is a heroic act, celebrated, the other a symptom. I don't buy it. I think they are two sides of the same coin. One the one hand, G and I have these horridly upsetting conversations that go around in circles and don't resolve as he says the same phrase or question over and over. On the other hand, as we are having the looping conversations I believe that we are both trying to find ways to slow down the momentum, to find safe passage to resolution. I may not be able to "change the topic" as a therapist put it, but (in my mommy heart I believe) that's not what he needs now. He needs to resolve the spinning so that he can change the topic. He needs to understand, not just memorize the next step in the conversation. And the way he will get there? Endless repetition. I'll be there with him.
Many horribly miserable conversations with G have been retold in positive and happy new ways since I have been able to understand him better. Now I now that he has a hard time understanding "not", I can rephrase what I say so he can take it in. Example: In the car on the way to school he takes a toy airplane he loves. Before I would say, "G, you can't take toys into your class, okay?" He would scream and throw the plane in frustration. He didn't understand the rules. He needs (like we all do) to understand the rules to feel confident and comfortable, to trust. Now I say, "G, when we get to school you leave the plane in the car, okay?" He looks at me and puts the airplane happily into the pocket of his carseat.
The hardest conversations right now involve time. "Not tonight." "Maybe later." "In a little while." "Tomorrow." He seems to sort these responses into two columns... yes and no. He counts my facial expressions, my tone, my enthusiasm as part of the response because he doesn't understand most of those phrases up there. He asks again. I repeat myself. He asks again, this time looking angry and sad. I say "I'm sorry; we can't right now. I know you're sad." I put my arms out in an appeal. He pushes me away. I stay and bear witness to his misery. He puts his arms up for me to pick him up. I hold him and tell him I'm sorry. He asks for me to wipe his eyes, wet from tears. I say "Okay." and wipe the wetness from his face. I desperately hope he knows I am there with him, even when the language barrier is too high to scale.
One of the things about G's otherness that scares me the most is this: There are things about G that I believe he would like help to overcome. There are other things about G which could be called other or strange that I believe are who he is and are beautiful and good. I want him to keep these parts of himself safe. I want him to treasure and revel in who he is, not water it down, hide it, make it fit into some other person's expectations. It's sometimes hard to figure out which is which or stop and ponder if I am trying to "fix" something because it is causing harm to him or because other people don't understand it.
What I want most for G now and always, is that he will be happy, that he will understand himself and other people, that he will love himself, that he will let himself wholly be who he is.
- the tendency for a memory or idea to persist or recur without any apparent stimulus for it
- the act of persisting or persevering; continuing or repeating behavior
I use my own experiences as a compass on this journey. It's all I have. They are usually not too far off the mark. When I am working through something I perseverate. I replay a conversation over and over in my head. I change things, look at all the angles. Remember what each moment felt like. Imagine what the other person was feeling at each moment. Think about changing things. This is what I do when I feel helpless, when I feel lost, when I feel like angry.
My gut tells me this is what G is doing now when he perseverates. He is working on things. It may look, feel and be an enactment of being stuck. But it means he is thinking and feeling and working. This is good. He is growing, even when he is also pushing hard and going nowhere.
I think it's fascinating how perseveration is a problem, but perseverance is one of those words you might find on an inspirational poster. They are so close. One is a heroic act, celebrated, the other a symptom. I don't buy it. I think they are two sides of the same coin. One the one hand, G and I have these horridly upsetting conversations that go around in circles and don't resolve as he says the same phrase or question over and over. On the other hand, as we are having the looping conversations I believe that we are both trying to find ways to slow down the momentum, to find safe passage to resolution. I may not be able to "change the topic" as a therapist put it, but (in my mommy heart I believe) that's not what he needs now. He needs to resolve the spinning so that he can change the topic. He needs to understand, not just memorize the next step in the conversation. And the way he will get there? Endless repetition. I'll be there with him.
Many horribly miserable conversations with G have been retold in positive and happy new ways since I have been able to understand him better. Now I now that he has a hard time understanding "not", I can rephrase what I say so he can take it in. Example: In the car on the way to school he takes a toy airplane he loves. Before I would say, "G, you can't take toys into your class, okay?" He would scream and throw the plane in frustration. He didn't understand the rules. He needs (like we all do) to understand the rules to feel confident and comfortable, to trust. Now I say, "G, when we get to school you leave the plane in the car, okay?" He looks at me and puts the airplane happily into the pocket of his carseat.
The hardest conversations right now involve time. "Not tonight." "Maybe later." "In a little while." "Tomorrow." He seems to sort these responses into two columns... yes and no. He counts my facial expressions, my tone, my enthusiasm as part of the response because he doesn't understand most of those phrases up there. He asks again. I repeat myself. He asks again, this time looking angry and sad. I say "I'm sorry; we can't right now. I know you're sad." I put my arms out in an appeal. He pushes me away. I stay and bear witness to his misery. He puts his arms up for me to pick him up. I hold him and tell him I'm sorry. He asks for me to wipe his eyes, wet from tears. I say "Okay." and wipe the wetness from his face. I desperately hope he knows I am there with him, even when the language barrier is too high to scale.
One of the things about G's otherness that scares me the most is this: There are things about G that I believe he would like help to overcome. There are other things about G which could be called other or strange that I believe are who he is and are beautiful and good. I want him to keep these parts of himself safe. I want him to treasure and revel in who he is, not water it down, hide it, make it fit into some other person's expectations. It's sometimes hard to figure out which is which or stop and ponder if I am trying to "fix" something because it is causing harm to him or because other people don't understand it.
What I want most for G now and always, is that he will be happy, that he will understand himself and other people, that he will love himself, that he will let himself wholly be who he is.
Friday, January 22, 2010
special
Since having a kid who other people categorize as Special, I have come to loathe the word. I used to feel much more ambivalent. It was present in my childhood as either a slightly embarrassing compliment from relatives or teachers or as a taunt from other kids who didn't understand me. It was, a few times, hurtful, but mostly just an occasional reminder that I wasn't the status quo in my classrooms.
Now, it's used to describe my kids' education, my kids' peers, my kids' difficulties. It represents his differences from everybody else. Special needs, special education, special services, special classrooms, specials. Oh, how that word rings in my ears, mocking my attempts to show off my beautiful, smart, amazing child to the rest of the world. It could be worse. I just wish that labels weren't so prevalent and so quick to pile up on kids who may be affected by them for the rest of their lives. I wish my kid could be known by his name, not his abilities/disabilities. If I had a vote, I would write in "Alternative Education" as a replacement for "Special Education". It seems less loaded. More realistic and less candy coated. Special as a word to describe kids who have extra difficulties, worries, hardships, challenges seems to be trying to turn something people are uncomfortable with (being obviously different) into something warm and fuzzy to make it more palatable. But using a sweetened-up word doesn't make being different less scary or loaded with negative feelings and images. It's just more off-base. More dishonest.
Not too far in the distant past, I turned down a diagnosis for G "just so he can get the insurance coverage." It's a hard situation to have to choose between labels, and help paying for services to help your kid. We could afford to pay ourselves so I chose not to have (in our case) unneccessary labels tied to my kid. The thing that amazed me the most about that particular story though, was when I told another evaluator about it several months later and she expressed in disapproving surprise that she'd never heard anyone say they were doing the same thing. I'm betting she's met others. They just didn't tell her about it. I will go out on a limb and say I don't think many parents like labels and diagnoses put on their child, and even less so if they aren't accurate or descriptive of the actual kid. I don't mean that they aren't useful, important, helpful and neccessary in many cases, just that sometimes they aren't. It shouldn't be taken for granted, like it has been a for us a few times.
The combined classroom (kids who are receiving special education services and kids who are "normal" in the same class) G's in now is a gift to everyone in it. The Autistic kids, the kids with partial deafness, the kids with Cerebral Palsy, my son with Auditory Processing Disorder- they are learning so much from watching and interacting with the unlabeled kids. And those regular ed. kids- they are learning so much from the kids who are in special ed. Learning from one another, learning about one another and ourselves, learning how we are all similar and all different- I wish we all had as much ample opportunities for these things as the kids in G's class. That really is special- the way I think the word should be used. Important. Worth recognizing and striving for.
Now, it's used to describe my kids' education, my kids' peers, my kids' difficulties. It represents his differences from everybody else. Special needs, special education, special services, special classrooms, specials. Oh, how that word rings in my ears, mocking my attempts to show off my beautiful, smart, amazing child to the rest of the world. It could be worse. I just wish that labels weren't so prevalent and so quick to pile up on kids who may be affected by them for the rest of their lives. I wish my kid could be known by his name, not his abilities/disabilities. If I had a vote, I would write in "Alternative Education" as a replacement for "Special Education". It seems less loaded. More realistic and less candy coated. Special as a word to describe kids who have extra difficulties, worries, hardships, challenges seems to be trying to turn something people are uncomfortable with (being obviously different) into something warm and fuzzy to make it more palatable. But using a sweetened-up word doesn't make being different less scary or loaded with negative feelings and images. It's just more off-base. More dishonest.
Not too far in the distant past, I turned down a diagnosis for G "just so he can get the insurance coverage." It's a hard situation to have to choose between labels, and help paying for services to help your kid. We could afford to pay ourselves so I chose not to have (in our case) unneccessary labels tied to my kid. The thing that amazed me the most about that particular story though, was when I told another evaluator about it several months later and she expressed in disapproving surprise that she'd never heard anyone say they were doing the same thing. I'm betting she's met others. They just didn't tell her about it. I will go out on a limb and say I don't think many parents like labels and diagnoses put on their child, and even less so if they aren't accurate or descriptive of the actual kid. I don't mean that they aren't useful, important, helpful and neccessary in many cases, just that sometimes they aren't. It shouldn't be taken for granted, like it has been a for us a few times.
The combined classroom (kids who are receiving special education services and kids who are "normal" in the same class) G's in now is a gift to everyone in it. The Autistic kids, the kids with partial deafness, the kids with Cerebral Palsy, my son with Auditory Processing Disorder- they are learning so much from watching and interacting with the unlabeled kids. And those regular ed. kids- they are learning so much from the kids who are in special ed. Learning from one another, learning about one another and ourselves, learning how we are all similar and all different- I wish we all had as much ample opportunities for these things as the kids in G's class. That really is special- the way I think the word should be used. Important. Worth recognizing and striving for.
Friday, January 15, 2010
speech delay at 3
When we took G in for the first in a series of evaluations for his delayed speech, more than one professional told us that our kid avoided eye contact and interactions. They told us in longer and less clear words that he didn't want to communicate with us, that we should encourage him to interact with us by making it more fun.
I tried to tell them that my boy wanted to communicate with us, his Mama and Daddy. He was desperate to communicate. I tried to point out that most kids wouldn't give great eye contact when they are faced with an entire wall of toys they have never seen before. I tried to tell them that he was different at home. I tried to tell them that I was an oddball as a kid too... that I just wasn't on the same wavelength as my classmates. (One woman actually made a joke out of that. I still get angry when I think of her. The same woman said, "Oh, he will definitely qualify for special education, don't you think?" and I had to hold back the tears until we made it out of that office. ) I tried to tell them that what they were seeing that was good, it had been built up recently. He was making progress. I tried to tell them that he loves to talk, the little he can. He begs to communicate with us. He doesn't like playing on his own forever.
They didn't see the same little boy I did. Sometimes I want to take him back, to reintroduce them to him. They would be amazed. How could they not be... they thought he was uninterested in interacting with people. I want to teach them about my boy, for the other parents sakes. So maybe sometimes, they could listen to the parents perspective without casting it aside as denial or grasping at straws. So sometimes, they might take a little more time and see a little more of the person growing in front of them. Four out of four of the first professionals to meet our son suggested he might be on the Autism spectrum (because they couldn't say for sure that he fit that diagnosis and they couldn't think of other possibilities) and then got defensive when I asked pointed questions about Autism, expressed my doubts and asked if there were any other explanations for his language difficulties. I did an unbelievable amount of reading about kids with early language delays, and about Autism and every time I read a description of it, I thought that doesn't seem like G. But it kept coming up in the evaluations. And I kept reading more, wondering, doubting, refusing to swallow that the thing causing his speech delay was something that he fit very few of the usual signs of. He has since been diagnosed with Auditory Processing Disorder and we have very definitively ruled out Autism.
The truth was, at 3 years old, G had begun to give up. To give up on us understanding him and understanding us. He was angry. He was scared. He was sad and lonely and very very frustrated. And he couldn't hear or understand a lot of what was said to him. That's why there wasn't as much eye contact as there "should be". Not even as much as there had been when he was younger and more oblivious to his isolation due to the language barrier. We kept looking for an explanation that made sense. We kept reading books, signing in ASL, acting things out, getting in his face while talking to him. We kept hoping to understand what was going on in his head, and what he wanted to tell us.
He's 4 and a half now. He can describe things. He can ask for things politely. He loves choices. He loves us and tells us so frequently. He makes wonderful eye contact if he hears us. He mishears words. He gets lost if the sentences are too long or involved. He gets frustrated when he needs to express negative emotions other than sadness. He likes to tell his little sister what to do and what not to. He can tell anyone his name and age. He can navigate anywhere in the city by telling me which direction to turn the car. He is mostly toilet trained. He plays hide and seek with friends. He doesn't understand days of the week. He has gone from the language level of an infant (at just under 4 yrs old) to just under the language level of his neurotypical peers (at 4 1/2).
Look out world, my boy has a lot of things he wants to tell you!
I believe that the best expectations of what a child will and won't be able to do come from their parents gut feelings (not the horrible worst case scenarios and doubts my mind ran through over and over when faced with uncertainty and bad news about G.)
I tried to tell them that my boy wanted to communicate with us, his Mama and Daddy. He was desperate to communicate. I tried to point out that most kids wouldn't give great eye contact when they are faced with an entire wall of toys they have never seen before. I tried to tell them that he was different at home. I tried to tell them that I was an oddball as a kid too... that I just wasn't on the same wavelength as my classmates. (One woman actually made a joke out of that. I still get angry when I think of her. The same woman said, "Oh, he will definitely qualify for special education, don't you think?" and I had to hold back the tears until we made it out of that office. ) I tried to tell them that what they were seeing that was good, it had been built up recently. He was making progress. I tried to tell them that he loves to talk, the little he can. He begs to communicate with us. He doesn't like playing on his own forever.
They didn't see the same little boy I did. Sometimes I want to take him back, to reintroduce them to him. They would be amazed. How could they not be... they thought he was uninterested in interacting with people. I want to teach them about my boy, for the other parents sakes. So maybe sometimes, they could listen to the parents perspective without casting it aside as denial or grasping at straws. So sometimes, they might take a little more time and see a little more of the person growing in front of them. Four out of four of the first professionals to meet our son suggested he might be on the Autism spectrum (because they couldn't say for sure that he fit that diagnosis and they couldn't think of other possibilities) and then got defensive when I asked pointed questions about Autism, expressed my doubts and asked if there were any other explanations for his language difficulties. I did an unbelievable amount of reading about kids with early language delays, and about Autism and every time I read a description of it, I thought that doesn't seem like G. But it kept coming up in the evaluations. And I kept reading more, wondering, doubting, refusing to swallow that the thing causing his speech delay was something that he fit very few of the usual signs of. He has since been diagnosed with Auditory Processing Disorder and we have very definitively ruled out Autism.
The truth was, at 3 years old, G had begun to give up. To give up on us understanding him and understanding us. He was angry. He was scared. He was sad and lonely and very very frustrated. And he couldn't hear or understand a lot of what was said to him. That's why there wasn't as much eye contact as there "should be". Not even as much as there had been when he was younger and more oblivious to his isolation due to the language barrier. We kept looking for an explanation that made sense. We kept reading books, signing in ASL, acting things out, getting in his face while talking to him. We kept hoping to understand what was going on in his head, and what he wanted to tell us.
He's 4 and a half now. He can describe things. He can ask for things politely. He loves choices. He loves us and tells us so frequently. He makes wonderful eye contact if he hears us. He mishears words. He gets lost if the sentences are too long or involved. He gets frustrated when he needs to express negative emotions other than sadness. He likes to tell his little sister what to do and what not to. He can tell anyone his name and age. He can navigate anywhere in the city by telling me which direction to turn the car. He is mostly toilet trained. He plays hide and seek with friends. He doesn't understand days of the week. He has gone from the language level of an infant (at just under 4 yrs old) to just under the language level of his neurotypical peers (at 4 1/2).
Look out world, my boy has a lot of things he wants to tell you!
I believe that the best expectations of what a child will and won't be able to do come from their parents gut feelings (not the horrible worst case scenarios and doubts my mind ran through over and over when faced with uncertainty and bad news about G.)
Thursday, January 14, 2010
can't you see I'm working here?!
G dearly loves to play on the computer. Pbskids.org is one of his favorites and he would happily spend oh, probably twelve solid hours trying new games, browsing, playing his favorites like "the boat game" where he steers a raft down a river filled with boulders, piranhas and countless other potential things to bump into and *gasp of horror* slow down. It's almost always a battle to get him off the computer for dinner or a trip to the grocery store and he usually ends up angry and sad. He gets through it with several hugs and five minutes or so to readjust to the world.
His dad and I both work on computers, from home so he hears us say "I'm working" fairly often. I was still completely shocked to hear him answer my question "What do you want to eat for dinner?" by saying "I'm working!" in a sort of Mo-om, I'm doing something really important here... Can't you see my cartoon bunny is halfway through jumping up various ledges to the treasure?! tone. Whoa! I was annoyed and amused and proud all together. I mean, what an attitude, right? But, hey, G has never never sassed me before. He's told me no, and pushed me and told me to stop... but "I'm working" took quite a bit of finesse and style. He's so limited in his language that I see sass as quite a breakthrough. We celebrate it all, even the things I'm sure I'll be banging my head on the wall because of in no time at all.
So I smiled for a second, and then I reminded him that "I'm busy" would be a more appropriate way to tell me his purple jumping bunny cannot stand to wait while he answers my pesky questions about dinner options. Then I decided next time I want to tell him that I'm working, I should really reconsider. It's definitely making an impression.
His dad and I both work on computers, from home so he hears us say "I'm working" fairly often. I was still completely shocked to hear him answer my question "What do you want to eat for dinner?" by saying "I'm working!" in a sort of Mo-om, I'm doing something really important here... Can't you see my cartoon bunny is halfway through jumping up various ledges to the treasure?! tone. Whoa! I was annoyed and amused and proud all together. I mean, what an attitude, right? But, hey, G has never never sassed me before. He's told me no, and pushed me and told me to stop... but "I'm working" took quite a bit of finesse and style. He's so limited in his language that I see sass as quite a breakthrough. We celebrate it all, even the things I'm sure I'll be banging my head on the wall because of in no time at all.
So I smiled for a second, and then I reminded him that "I'm busy" would be a more appropriate way to tell me his purple jumping bunny cannot stand to wait while he answers my pesky questions about dinner options. Then I decided next time I want to tell him that I'm working, I should really reconsider. It's definitely making an impression.
Friday, January 1, 2010
she rocks!
A few days ago, we are entertaining guests in our front room. G is putting together puzzle after puzzle and L is doing acrobatic feats such as performing splits on the arms of the armchair. She wanders around a bit and ends up swinging between the couch and a table, one arm on each, holding her feet up and swinging back and forth. Someone says "Are you rocking?" L responds enthusiastically, "I rock!"
She certainly does.
She certainly does.
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