Keeping him safe...I thought I was doing it right...

I went to online today, to Sammy's [former, thank god] school's website, and there was a survey there, an apparent attempt to "improve our school."  It got me to thinking that I might FINALLY be able to write about what our school experience was last year; so thank you, Kelloggsville, for that, at least.  Let me tell you, the experience was NOT good.

 

Sammy was in 4th grade, last year, and we entered his new school with high hopes.  As some may realize, he has some challenges:  ADHD, OCD, Tourette's, and anxiety (with some developing paranoia).  In light of these facts, I made an appointment with our new principal before school even started; I wanted her to have plenty of time to become familiar with Sammy's "schtuff," and to have the opportunity to ask questions or contact his doctor or therapist; whatever she felt that she needed to do.  I requested that she read over the records which I provided, and to please share them with his teacher(s) and school counselor.  I stated that we would do whatever was needed to help to facilitate a successful school year for him.  I asked about securing a parapro for him (as requested by his physician)...she said "Oh, we don't do that."  I was a bit taken aback by that curt, quick refusal, but I was assured that Spencer was in good, competent hands; he would be spending his days with a teacher who was "great" with kids who are "quirky."  Um...yeah...not quite.

 

Let me be clear:  This is not about bashing either teachers OR public education;  I am a staunch supporter of both.  I believe that teaching is the highest form of love; it is truly where everything starts.  Where teaching is absent, nothing can grow.  This has been my experience.  I have loved teachers since before forever.

 

I won't get into all of the gory details of Sam's 4th grade year~the meetings, the emails, the tears (mine and Sam's), the heartbreak which I felt and subsequent prayer that I said every day that I had to send him to that place ("Please, Dear God, let them be nice to him.  Please help him to not feel so alone.  Please help him to know that I haven't abandoned him to these people, that I have no choice but to send him there.").  Basically what happened is this:  No one cared.  Not pro-actively.  Not in any way that helped my little boy.  No one did anything to reach out to him, to touch his heart, to HELP HIM SUCCEED.  They saw how heavy he was, and they did nothing to lighten his load.

 

Another point for clarification:  Sam is awesome.  Great.  Terrific.  Funny.  Highly intelligent.  He is also frustrating.  Talkative.  Highly energetic.  Socially unsure with his peers.  He makes errors in judgment because he can't focus long enough to remember this:  "Think first, THEN do."  Sometimes, however, he is just naughty, plain and simple~because he's a kid.  Naughty is what they do, on occasion.  At home, and when we are with him, we acknowledge these facts.  Why?  Because even though he has more acronyms after his name than any kid should, and even though those may be reasons for his behaviors and decisions, they must never be viewed as excuses.  Sammy has to learn the same lessons which other children, of all ages, do.  This means that we can't use them as excuses, either, and by and large, we don't.  We have expectations of and for him, and in general, he is bound by the same rules, discipline, etc..., which were applied to his siblings.  However, the conclusion we have reached is this: 

 

Even though all of the kids have to clean their plates, if one of them needs to use a fork instead of chopsticks to achieve the same results, so be it.

 

I say all of that because I want to be clear about the fact that never, not once, did we ask his school to make exceptions or special rules for him; we just hoped that they could help him to discover different tools.  In fact, I actually said to his principal:  "We don't want different rules, but we need different tools."  Reasonable, right?  I offered to do whatever I could.  I was told "We'll call you if there is something you need to know.  He needs to have the opportunity to figure things out at school, even if that means some bumps along the way.  We are preparing him for 5th grade and for the "real world."  He must learn to be responsible."  All of which is true, and must be acknowledged.  All of which I agreed with (and still do) and all of which I agreed to (and regret).  The words were right, but the methodology...not so much.  I broke my own cardinal rule, and I did not listen to my tummy.  I trusted them when they said that they would help him.  I didn't press it (!) when his teacher told me that I was neither welcome nor needed in his classroom; so, once a week. I just spent a day in the copy room, doing my thing, hoping that just my being there would be good enough.  When the school counselor said that I should try to keep home and school separate, I was willing to try doing that, even though it felt uncomfortable.  And still, my son suffered.  He was bullied, by students and yes~by teachers.  Now, he made plenty of bad choices, and suffered some consequences for his actions, as it should be.  But you see, there was never any commendation...just condemnation.  What little kid can survive, let alone thrive, in an environment where he spends 6 or more hours a day with adults who hate him and never see that he's good?  Does that word~"hate~"seem a little over the top?  A bit harsh?  Let me skip ahead to the last day of school...

 

Imagine this scene:

 

Spencer and I, waiting to say goodbye to all of his friends as they return from a skating party (he did not go skating; he lost the privilege due to unfinished responsibilities at home, I believe).  As we wait, the principal arrives at the school ahead of the others.  She stands within 5 feet of Sam and I; she says nothing to us.  As the children and other staff arrive, no adult (save one, Mr. B, who is fabulous) will acknowledge us standing there.  Can you picture it?  Forget about me...they are IGNORING a 10-year-old!  Sam's teacher and his counselor both walk by, neither woman even attempts a greeting.  Fortunately, Sam does not notice, as several of the other students have (thankfully) stopped to say goodbye.  As we are finally leaving the parking lot, Sam hangs his head out the window, waving and shouting goodbye, like all of the other kids on the bus and in various cars.  He spots his principal, standing there.  Waves like a crazed person.  "Mrs. D...!  Mrs. D...!  Bye!!!  Bye Mrs. D...!" Mrs. D's response?  First, she looks straight at him and says nothing, emotes nothing~not love, not loathing, just...nothing.  She then Turns. Her. Back. On. Him.  This happened.  I saw it.  I wish I could say that I was surprised.  I'm just grateful that, in all of his excitement, Sam did not notice; he would have been crushed.  As for me, this experience has only strengthened my resolve that never again will my son darken the doorstep of Southeast Kelloggsville.  I have been so hurt for him, and so...disappointed by these educators, that I haven't been able to write about it until now.  I still get choked up, and I haven't even written about the worst parts.

 

Cut to the survey that the school asks me to complete.  Gladly, I will answer these questions.  I still hope to speak with the superintendent of the district.  Why?  True, doing so can't undo the hurt that was done to my boy, who was most certainly "left behind."  However, if our bruises can shed a light on what is, in our experience, an inexcusable lack of quality support for special needs children, then sharing this story is the only responsible thing to do.

 

Below is a synopsis of my "survey answers:"

 

"What is absolutely necessary to define a "good" education? 

 

1)  Consistent and meaningful communication between home and school.

2)  A safe, nurturing environment for student, with an emphasis on strong character development and mutual support.

3)  A well-educated, enthusiastic, dedicated staff who are willing to extend equal opportunities to un-equal, differently gifted and highly individual students.

 

The fact is that that there are many demands on teachers today to be everything and more to their students, and this in addition to navigating the very unstable waters of educational politics.  This leaves fine educators with precious little time to actually teach, and leaves education in general with severe~and dangerous~deficits.

 

In my opinion, schools in general and Kelloggsville specifically needs to change two things, and they are co-dependent~not exclusive~of one another.  The district needs to do whatever it takes to get our schools back to K - 5 buildings; grade level schooling is a disaster, and has left many children behind.  Children who relate more easily with those a bit younger or older than themselves are frequently lonely and oftentimes straight up bullied in what I consider to be an administratively-bred nightmare.  But even before the elementary buildings are returned to their previous, somewhat tenuously balanced state, the re-education of our educators must begin.  Children face so many hardships in today's world, and while~yes, it is true~educators must prepare them for the "real world;" the "elementary years" are where, in many cases, we leave the last vestiges of our innocence behind.  In light of those facts, then, I feel that our teachers must be allowed, and TAUGHT, where necessary, to be even MORE compassionate, understanding and kind, even as they establish rules and teach standards of conduct and concepts of respect and accountability.  Children must be taught to "play nice," and to be thoughtful and respectful of others..."real world" lessons that they can not and WILL NOT learn from educators who are, quite frankly too overworked, underpaid, tired and in many cases too disinterested in actually teaching our children because they are so focused on reaching grade level expectations that they have forgotten that they need to reach our children."

Because I said so...that really is the reason.

Because I said so

March 17, 2008

J.Daymon Cole~For my children

 

I am your parent…because I said so

 

I said yes to that responsibility, that joy

I said yes, I do want that girl
And that boy

And so now here you are

So full of light
And I’m here to guide you, and that is my right
Because I said so.

Because I said so

Yes~those words sometimes chafe

But without them, how could I keep you safe?
I know that to you, those words aren’t kind
They seem to do nothing for you, only bind
And I know that right now, you don’t understand
And you feel like I’m always there, holding your hand

And in a way, I am

Because I said so

"Because I said so,"

It turns out, means much more
Than restricting your life or assigning some chore
Because I said so..it’s my job, can’t you see?
It’s the thing that God gave, when he gave you to me

 

Because I said so,

I have watched as you grow
And with every moment, I have had to let go

Because I said so,

I watch as you choose
I must cheer as you win
Console when you lose
I must help you to see that there’s value in both
That both will contribute so much to your growth

Because I said so,

I must hold on, it’s true
But you never notice, when I let go of you
You probably don’t see how it tears at my heart
When I let you go somewhere without me, apart
You probably don’t know, I worry each minute
I can’t wait until I check your bed, and you’re in it!

Because I said so,

I say “No, not today.”
But I also must watch you, as you grow away
I must give you freedoms, before I am ready
I must give you bounds, and that makes my heart heavy
I must know the difference, because you don’t, yet
I must hold firm, I cannot relent

Because I said so,

I must listen to you
I must ask the right questions, I must see them through
I must require accountability,
But acknowledge you’re a child
How best do I teach you...I have such a short while!

All that I want for you is the best

The safest, the utmost, the pinnacle, the crest!
I must remain steady, yet I have to bend
I must be here for you, and I am~without end
Because I said so

Because I said so,

I am grateful for you
For the things that you’ve taught me
The stuff we’ve been through
And the stuff we’ll still go through,
And yes, we’ll survive!
(My parents had ME, and they’re still alive!)

Because I said so,

I will tell you “I love you”
In front of your friends, I will kiss and will hug you
I will fuss and I’ll tease
I’ll correct and appease
And one day, in a mirror, I promise,
You’ll see

Because I said so, that

"Because I said so,"

Is giving, and taking
It’s holding, releasing, healing and breaking
It’s yes, and it’s maybe, and “definitely no!”
Sometimes it’s saying “I tried to tell you so.”
It’s love, understanding, a laugh and a smile
It’s letting you know
You’re worth that extra mile

Because I said so,

It’s my privilege, my assignment
It came to me wrapped up in you:
My consignment.

Because I said so,

You will always be
My treasure, my precious
My child…you see?

Because I said so,

I will watch you with pride
I’ll delight in your changes
I will be by your side
I’ll encourage, I’ll discipline,
I’ll delight as you grow

I will do all of this

But I’ll never let go.

Because I said so.

Sometimes I think that I'm trying "work some magic" with a duct-taped wand...

So Sam and I had to go pick Elijah up from work, and at the top of the 68th Street exit there was a guy with a "Homeless and Hungry" sign. Sam noticed and had a dollar which he wanted to give to the man. I explained that it's better to give food than money, etc, etc, etc... So we decided that after picking Elijah up, we would get the man something and Sam could give him some food. All went according to plan...oh, except for~the guy was GONE. That's when we decided, at 8:30 tonight, to go hunting for a homeless person, armed with good intent, 2 BK Broilers, French fries, a milk, a water, and a banana. We drove in the growing darkness, looking for someone to whom we could give dinner. Did I mention, I have night blindness and wasn't wearing my contacts, and Elijah isn't insured to drive the Vue? Because of my vision, and MDOT, we ended up in the left turn lane at 28th Street and South Division, with nary a homeless person spotted. Our plan had been to look on Division, but we settled on 28th Street and the boys kept looking. NADA. So I thought that maybe if we drove behind Roger's Plaza, we might find someone. Sam's advice when he saw that stretch of pavement? "Don't roll down the windows. I'm serious." And Elijah suggested that we watch for people at bus stops who might appear needy. Sam also felt that anyone walking down the street and carrying a bag would be a likely candidate, but that anyone with a woman would obviously NOT be in need (???). So we drove, for an hour, in a circle. I finally ended up at 36th Street and Division AGAIN, and said, "OK, this is it. Start looking." It was as we approached Brann's, that Elijah and I both spotted him: A thin scruffy man with~yes, that's right~a bag and NO WOMAN. "Hey! Right there! Did you see...?" "Yes! Do you think...?" So we decided to pull into Brann's ahead of where he was walking so that we could further assess the situation. I told Elijah to call it, since I was, by now, unable to see anything at a distance. "There he is!" Elijah cried. "See?" "Yes," Sam and I replied, "Well?" "I don't know," said Elijah. "I can't tell..." The man proceeded to walk RIGHT BY my side of the car, and as he passed my door, and we were trying to decide his housing status or lack there of, and were about to offer him dinner, Elijah wondered aloud, quietly... "What if he's a lunatic?" WHAT IF HE'S A LUNATIC??? Do you see? This is what happens when I try to be a responsible parent and help my children to develop a compassionate sense of caring and social awareness: I drive blindly in a circle for an hour looking for cleverly hidden homeless people to feed, and Poppy and Mom end up eating Burger King at 10:00 pm. The sad thing is, none of what happened tonight is at all, in any way, a surprise to me. We are crazy people. Sigh...

More Mom Math...Trying to figure out my new "place value."

The person who’s most in tune to my every nuance has moved on~married to a wonderful man, establishing her own place in her own world~and I couldn’t be happier for my Darling Girl.  Her new husband is more than I could ever have wished for her, exactly the right match.  I am confident that she will learn to be a wonderful, loving wife to him.  She chose superbly, and I am proud of the woman that she is becoming.  But still, I miss her like I would miss oxygen, if it was taken from me.  We are~she and I~very much the same in so many ways, and…she gets me, like no one else ever has, or probably ever will.  We have a…certain inexplicable balance between us…  That is a great gift to receive, and I miss it’s presence already.  When she left before, I knew that she’d be back, and that makes the missing easier~that ability to think about the return.  But this time…this going is forever.  This going is gone.  Recently, we’ve even joked:  “Fine, but you only have three more weeks to…run to the store with me, help me with laundry, feed the cat…” whatever.  I forgot how quickly time flies, when you least want it to…

So here I am.  All these years of trying to be selfless in the name of mother-love, all this talk of kids first, and what am I doing?  I am sitting here, wishing that it was 9 months ago, when there was no him.  And don’t get me wrong:  I love her him, I do.  He is the best him for her, without a doubt.  But I am thinking of how much I miss her, now that she's gone.  How much I wish that her toothbrush was still there on the side of the sink.  How sad it makes me that I’ve finished the last load of laundry that has her stuff in it.  Realizing how selfish being the focus of her love all of these years has made me.  If I had to give up my little corner of her heart to anyone, I’m grateful and even happy to move aside for the one she’s chosen, truly.  But I admit that I’m a little lost; I loved her first, after all, before anybody else even knew she was there.  And no one will ever love her like I do, no one will ever read her like I can.  I know her heart at a glance…we finish each other’s thoughts, for heaven’s sake!  I knew that she loved him before she even suspected it.  And who is this man, anyway?  Does he think, for even a moment, that he can ever hold her in his heart with the fierceness that I have held her?

I am, as usual, unsure of how to play a lesser~or at least, a vastly different~role in her life…  Our equation has been pretty much the same for, oh, the past 20 years.  There has been her.  And me.  Now, it is him and her, and I am flat-out TERRIFIED of screwing this up, trying to figure out where I add in to the mix, and getting it wrong.  Lord save me from being THAT mother.

As I mull it over, it occurs to me that perhaps part of the problem is that I never, not ever, not even once, had to “let go” of a single blessed thing when I was younger.  No, that business started with~you guessed it~my daughter.  It began the moment that I gave birth.  With her first breath~in the very second that her small, perfect, wriggly little self separated from my body…a lifetime of letting go began.  We followed birth, of course, with a multitude of transitions:  Breast to bottle, parental bed to crib, even mom’s arms to dad’s.  I never worried about those things; it was all a part of it, and besides, at the end of the day, to be honest:  Mom was "The Bomb"~my place was secure~she would always turn to me, and I would always be there, arms open, waiting.  How arrogant I was about holding that sweet spot in her heart for all of those years.  The question I have to ask is:  Have I appreciated enough the privilege of being so loved by her?  Because I’m being moved in the equation, again.  I know that’s how it’s supposed to be, that it’s even a good thing, but I’m having a hard time being exactly happy about it…math, after all, is not my strength, and nobody likes being subtracted.

These are the thoughts I find myself grappling with, and yet…I have seen it in his eyes when he doesn’t know that I’m watching:  This girl~my girl~is his universe, now.  I watched him last week, as he danced with my daughter~his wife~and he held her waist with such gentle strength as he guided her around the dance floor.  I counted the happy tears in his eyes as she walked toward him, her hand on her father’s arm, ready to be given away, to take his name, his life, as her own.  I have listened to him as he’s expressed his delight at the wonder, the chance, of meeting her~of falling in love with someone so extraordinary.  I see the pride in him when he’s with her:  “This woman is mine.  She chose me.  She is standing with me.”  His pride mirrors my own feelings for her:  “That girl was mine.  She always chose me.  She used to stand by me.”  I have thought many times that I can’t fault his taste in women. 

There’s nothing that I have~not one thing~that isn’t that child’s for the asking, and the last thing I would ever want is to have her think that I want anything less than, well…everything, for her; that’s my math.  I was the first one to give this man the green light (and a little talking to about properly valuing my daughter).  I’m also actually excited in some ways:  I think it will be amazing, getting to be wives together.  I am already enthralled, watching her as she navigates this “having a man” thing:  For a relative newbie, she is skilled~patient, unfailingly reasonable and calm, quick to smile.  She’s got this, and as much as I will miss her climbing the stairs to tell me about her day, or to just give me a hug and a kiss, as much as I already have this girl-shaped vacancy in my personal space, it is as it should be.  She is right where we have wanted her to land:  Whole, happy, loved.

And though our relationship is undergoing yet another “definitive adjustment,” perhaps that will make what remains to us even sweeter.  I never dreamed that having a daughter would be like this for me.  I never wanted to be one of those moms who said “My kid is my best friend.”  I always thought that that idea held a certain [potential] danger:  A kid can have a lot of friends; what they need in a mother is…a mother.  Boy, did I underestimate the draw:  My daughter is absolutely one of my best friends, and I am so proud to say that I’m never not her mom when she needs me for that, and she has never had to compromise being my kid in order for our friendship to flourish.

Maybe I’ve been looking at this whole thing the wrong way:  A)  I have a simply fantastic new son to add to my brood.  B)  Yes, I miss her~and him~terribly, but actually, how great is that???  I mean, if our relationship weren’t thriving in the first place, there’d be nothing worth missing, right?  And C)  I’m not the only one who loves “us”~she loves us, too, and neither of us is willing to suffer a loss on that point.  Oh, and he loves “us” as well, so that’s good, right?  That's a LOT of addition.

Sooo, I need to remember that change doesn’t have to equal loss; sometimes it’s actually the dividend of all you’ve been working for, and saving.  And I think that that is the kind of math I can learn to master.

Funny story~NOW...

(Please Note:  Today's blog entry is actually a true story.  It happened some years ago, and I thought I'd share it here, as I am trying to be more disciplined about my writing.  I dedicate this to Julie R., who artfully played the role of the up-till-now anonymous mom.)

I was using my dad's big, dusty, less-than-sporty work van today, and I was at Walgreen's, getting ink for my printer.  I had to lock the van because all of his tools were in it, right?  So, also, today is not a "beautiful" day for me (no makeup, bandana on my head...NOT pretty, you get the idea...).  I get into the store and I notice that there is a "mom" I used to know from the kid's former school, and of COURSE she is perfectly put together, so I spend an extra 25 minutes HIDING in Walgreen's because I look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame and I haven't seen this woman in 3 or 4 years.  She is apparently on a long-term spree, but I finally manage to get my stuff and skulk out of the store un-noticed (by her...I'm sure that the clerks were beginning to wonder about me...).  So I get to the van, and I put the key in the lock.  It does not unlock.  I try again.  And again.  I cry a little, and wonder why I bothered getting out of bed this morning.  I try again in case something miraculous has happened during my breakdown.  Nope.  Still locked.  So, I grab my bag and go BACK INSIDE, where the mom I knew is STILL shopping (holy cow, it's just Walgreen's, not the mall!!!), so I use my super-secret-agent skills and manage to continue avoiding her in my quest for a phone.  The lady behind the makeup counter says that the only phones available are able to make calls only within the store.  She says quite cheerily that I could walk over to the health pavilion across the street and call.  She thinks.  No guarantees, of course.  I'm fairly certain that this is not accurate, that somewhere, sometime in the history of Walgreen's, someone has, in fact, called out.  Believe me, if it is true about the phones, and I don't get into the van soon, they're gonna wish they had outside lines...  Anyway, I go back out and circle the van.  I try the key again.  I look into the windows, which reveal my sandwich warming nicely in the sun, as well as all the tools which I could use to solve my dilemma, if only they weren't LOCKED IN THE VAN!!!  I decide that there is no alternative but to beg, so I dash into the store, narrowly missing the mom, and ask the photo-clerk if maybe she has a cell phone that I could use, really quickly, to call my dad.  Guess what?  She reaches under the counter, finds a phone quite easily, doesn't even dial "9" first, and whip, snap, pop!  There's my dad, on the phone.  WOW.  "No," he's saying... "There aren't separate "start" and "unlock" keys

(&^%$!!!), just the one plastic-topped black key.  It shouldn't turn too hard.  If nothing else, you can get a wire hanger between the sliding rear windows and unlock the back and crawl in.  Let me know if that works."  I don't have the heart to tell him that wire hangers are passe, everyone who is ANYONE uses plastic.  I mean, c'mon!  I trudge outside, arguing with the voices in my head, and do the round-the-van key tour again, with the same results.  I just want to go home.  I have stuff to do.  The house is empty, free of husband and kids.  This is not a Monday.  Why is this happening to me???  As I stand by the passenger side door, muttering to myself and planning how I'll probably be spending the rest of my life in the Walgreen's parking lot, an older gentleman in the car next to me asks if I can't get in.  To my credit, I do NOT say "YA THINK???"  He very graciously gets out of his car, and takes the key from me, ready to give it the old college try.  He asks me, "Is this the right key?  Is it this gray one?"  Nope, nice try, guy, but the black key is the one...theoretically.  About 10 minutes of trying every door and the rear hatch and he says "Are you sure that this is the right key?  This is not the right key.  See?  It won't even go all the way into the lock."  "No," I say, "that's the key to my dad's van," and even as I make that claim, I eye the keys which he is holding, the keys with which I have tried for the past 45 minutes or so to unlock this van, and I begin to wonder:  "Hmmmm, why do you suppose dad has my house key and the keys to my jeep and my Speedway Frequent Customer tag on his key ring?"  Oh no.  So, I look into my purse, and find another key ring.  It looks suspiciously like my dad's, and completely unlike the very familiar-to-me-now set which I have been carrying in my hand this whole time.  The gentleman takes the new key from my hand, lets me into my father's van with ease, says, "What would you do without me, Baby?," hands me the keys and hugs me, all without even laughing.  Tomorrow I take the bus. 

How was your day?

Reinventing the Wheel-A Brief Guide to the Mercurial Nature of a Boy

THIS BLOG ENTRY IS DEDICATED TO MY GOOD FRIEND AND HER YOUNG SON:  I AM GLAD TO HAVE ACCESS TO YOUR WISDOM, LADY!!!

Wikipedia says:  "To reinvent the wheel is to duplicate a basic method that has already previously been created or optimized by others."  Also,... "reinventing the wheel is an important tool in the instruction of complex ideas. Rather than providing students simply with a list of known facts and techniques and expecting them to incorporate these ideas perfectly and rapidly, the instructor instead will build up the material anew, leaving the student to work out those key steps which embody reasoning."  And finally, "The phrase is sometimes used without derision, especially when the user applies it reflexively, possibly to indicate that although his or her activities might be perceived as merely reinventing the wheel, they actually possess additional value. The metaphor emphasizes understanding existing solutions, but not necessarily settling for them."


Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to my life.  I have re-, and re-re, and re-to-the-umpteenth-power-invented the wheel, in my nine or so years of  being mother to a particular boy of mine.  My guy has a few extra "helpings" on his plate:  In addition to having the normal, everyday challenges of just being a 9-year-old kid in the 3rd grade, he also contends every day with ADHD, OCD, and anxiety disorder, as well.  These challenges are not his alone; I stand next to him always, a steadfast "team member."  I will state here, without reservation, that I love that boy all to bits, and I wouldn't change him at all.  That being the case, however, I also am obligated to admit something very difficult:  There are days when I feel completely overwhelmed; that I am the worst mother that this poor kid could've gotten stuck with.  I sometimes feel so utterly unqualified to parent this child that I want to cry.  I love him, as I love all of my children, so desperately that I would do anything to make his way easier for him, and yet it often seems that no matter what words I use, no matter what "system" I implement, we only ever achieve a temporary reprieve, at best.  I see him trying to work things out, wanting so badly to just "fit," but there always seems to be a "piece" sticking out, preventing him from completing the puzzle.  


I have been using the phrase "We're just reinventing the wheel" for a long time, as we try to navigate these different and often difficult processes, but it was only tonight, needing an introduction for this entry, that I thought to look up the meaning behind the phrase, and WOW...LIGHT BULB!


"To reinvent the wheel is to duplicate a basic method that has already previously been created or optimized by others."


Life is a funny thing, isn't it?  I mean, I recognize that I am by no stretch of the imagination the first mother-or parent, for that matter-to find herself trying to figure out this particular set of circumstances; yet somehow I feel very possessive of it, as if it is only mine...well, mine and his.  And in some ways that's accurate:  While others before us have figured out the basic details of their own experience, and how to make that experience work for them, it falls to us-to me, as mother-to observe what I can, and to then develop what I learn; to duplicate and to expand those methods for our family.  


... "reinventing the wheel is an important tool in the instruction of complex ideas."


What is a more complex idea than that of being human?  To me, this means that we are in some ways obligated to find our own way, and to grow through that discovery.  I thought, though, that it was interesting that this spoke of the instruction of complex ideas.  No one is expected to just "get it," automatically.  We are supposed to teach, and learn from, each other.  Realizing that offers an opportunity for me to forgive myself if I don't get it right the first time, every time, out; it allows me to shed a portion of my daily ration of maternal guilt. I'm not a bad mom if I ask someone else to share their experience so that I can benefit from it; in fact, I'll probably be stronger for it, in the long run.


"Rather than providing students simply with a list of known facts and techniques and expecting them to incorporate these ideas perfectly and rapidly, the instructor instead will build up the material anew, leaving the student to work out those key steps which embody reasoning."


Again, this is a rather defining statement for me~with all of the arrogance of adulthood and "experience" I haven't realized it before:  I am not the only "re-inventor" in the room.  Just imagine~all the while I've been busy trying to reinvent the wheel, so has he~and he should...it's his wheel, after all!  I thought that I could come up with facts and techniques, charts and systems that to my way of thinking, would, perhaps should work for him.  The truth is...reinvention~of the wheel or otherwise~means that the best thing that I can do for him is to help him to be able to discover for himself all of the elements of choice:  Foresight, thoughtfulness, awareness and consequence; that is my challenge. He needs to be able to reinvent that wheel-his wheel-on his own, one day. That is his challenge.  I suppose that it's a challenge that we all face; so different, yet so much the same...


"The phrase is sometimes used without derision, especially when the user applies it reflexively, possibly to indicate that although his or her activities might be perceived as merely reinventing the wheel, they actually possess additional value. The metaphor emphasizes understanding existing solutions, but not necessarily settling for them."


I have to say that I liked this, especially. It lends some power to the process, it validates this "re-invention." It really informs the whole idea; acknowledging that by the very act of "re-inventing" our own particular wheel, we add something of value for the next guy; a better rim, or ribbons in the spokes.  The act of re-inventing, then, is not about tearing down and starting over; it's about taking the time to see the beauty and function of what's already in front of you, but not apologizing if you can help it along a bit.  It isn't just finding what's "wrong" and arrogantly attempting to "fix" it, it's also finding what's right, and humbly polishing it to a high shine.  It's not about wanting a different wheel; it's really about loving the wheel you've got, and trying to retread just a little, every day. 

Sometimes, they change the game without telling you: How to find your new spot in the line-up

I LOVE baseball. I'm no expert, but I love it anyway. We went to a ballgame the other night and I observed that, as the game wore on, there were times when it seemed like the players instinctively knew what to do, without constant input from the coach, or from the batterymen.  They just watched each other, learned from the game even as they were playing it, and managed to play successfully.  Which, of course, got me to thinking...

Somehow, at some point, I seem to have lost my ranking with some of my players here on the home team. I used to be the first stop on the path to wellness: Big news to share? Call mom. Just got home? Find mom. Can't locate the crackers? Ask mom. Boo boo? Lost retainer? Broken heart? Mom. Mom. Mom. I'll admit, I have enjoyed that.  I guess that I've always taken for granted that my position in the lives of my children would always remain the same...they'd always want me crouching behind home plate~watching the field, calling the game, catching whatever they threw, playing defense on behalf of us all ...you know, important, "woman-behind-the scenes" stuff.   Let us not forget:  I am the mom, here; this is what I've been training for.  However, I never prepared myself for the day when I'd be sent out into the field; worse still, there are days when I think that I've been relegated to bench warmer.

I can't help but take this change personally.  I mean, I used to get called on to play in every game!  I'm not sure anymore...what is my current position?  I can't be traded, can I?  What can I do to improve my game?  These are the worries that keep me awake, running the reels of past games, trying to figure out where I went wrong.

Then one day, after a particularly hideous bout of "Why doesn't she miss me," I received a card from my daughter, who is living in another country for awhile.  I~briefly~considered not reading it right away...I had already sent off (and regretted) a particularly pouty email message to my girl, grappling with myself, I suppose, to retain some sort of hold on "the way things were," and I was not entirely convinced that I cared to "catch" whatever she was lobbing into home, at that particular moment.  After all, in six weeks, that child has only admitted to missing me one time!!!  What if that statistic is right?  Of course, my resolve lasted all of 30 nanoseconds, and so I read, and was taught.

I learned, with swelling pride, that my kiddo has grown into a seasoned player, in her own right.  She wrote that, because of what her father and I have tried to teach her, she feels well-equipped (!).  She acknowledged how difficult it has been for me to "let her go," yet she reminded me that "growing up doesn't and has never meant growing apart..." that she will "always need me, just differently."  She concluded her message of faith~her faith in my being able to gracefully accept this newest inning~with these words:  "I'll always rely on you, but the training wheels are off.  So, my dearest mother, let your heart rest, be calm and try not to worry so much.  You showed me how to walk.  Now I can run too, so let me.  Now it's my turn to use what you've shown me, to run full speed ahead.  For every step I take, you're always one ahead, paving the path."

Wow.  How beautiful; what a gift.  I have spent so much time watching her, learning all about her, taking note of her strengths and weaknesses, that it never occurred to me that she has been quietly watching right back, and taking note of me.  She has been in the game the whole time, studying, running drills with me while I wasn't looking, fine-tuning  her own skills, preparing for the day when she, too, might have to "play catcher."

So now, I have to re-examine my own game.  Can I accept my new field position(s)?  I hate to go into anything uninformed, so I did some research.  According to my sources (qcbaseball.com and factexpert.com):  "Infield play is important; to become a great infielder you must possess...ability and quickness, AND have a strong work ethic and the desire to continually improve...you have to move in all directions and field balls hit at various speeds and degrees of difficulty.  Outfielders have a very important role in the performance and success of the team. Especially when players start out young, many of them have a hard time learning how to play...well because there is so much space to work with and the balls seem to be traveling much faster...balls are typically higher in the air, as well, making it harder to know exactly when and where they are going to come down.  Players often have a hard time catching the ball, reacting quickly, and throwing with precision, so having them repeatedly practice...can make a big difference."

 I think I can do this.  I can take on a new position, in fact, it sounds a LOT like why I  wanted to form a team in the first place: I LOVE being a parent. I'm no expert, but I love it anyway, and I guess, in the end, that's why any of us stay in it; not to rise to great heights, or even to win every game.  We stay in the stadium, covered in dust, playing our positions as best we can, inning after inning, simply because we love the game, and we're determined to play until they shut down the lights.