Gus and the learning curve

Standing in the homework line waiting for Gus to receive his sticker the other day, the mother in front of us asked Gus if she could see his picture. The assignment was a color-by-number. Though Gus is enthusiastic about homework, I've gotta say, he kind of phoned this one in. Rather than coloring in each space, he scribbled a bit of color in the designated spots. Whatever, it's preschool, I thought.

"Oh, nice coloring, Gus!" the mom cooed, peering at his paper. Then to me: "How old is Gus?" "He turned 4 in August," I explained. "Oh, that explains it," she said. Huh, I thought, taking in her son's expertly colored-in picture. "My guy just loves stuff like this," the other mom, whose son turned 5 in September, chirped. "He gets out his box of Crayolas and goes to town."

It was one of those moments when I wish I'd had a clever retort to put her on the spot just a little bit. "Explains what, exactly," I'd ask innocently. This mom seems like a lovely person, despite her comment that smacked of an irritating competitiveness and subtle bragging. (And let's face it - who isn't guilty of that from time to time?)

It's true. Gus's fine motor skills are behind those of his peers. Virtually everyone in his class can write his or her name with some proficiency. My youngest is nowhere near writing his name remotely legibly. His coloring and drawing abilities are similar.

I haven't been particularly concerned about Gus's development in these areas. Again, he's in preschool. Furthermore, Gus is the youngest in his class, and he's a boy. These skills will come eventually for him. Still, I know expectations are only growing more rigorous at ever-younger ages.

For months now, I've been meaning to crack open the book our family doctor recommended after I expressed concern about Gus's energy level. It's called "The Purpose of Boys." Surprise, surprise, I have yet to dive in to the book. I've heard so much about the differences between the ways boys and girls learn, that school is more geared toward girls, who are more mature, especially in the younger years. I really do need to learn more.

When I begin to worry that Gus won't be able to match his peers' skills, I remind myself of all that is special about my boy. He may not be able to perfectly color a picture, but he's got the most winning personality, the biggest smile.

The other day, we ran into a friend from high school. Gus looked right at her kids and said, "Hi, I'm Gus!" This is something my other two boys would never do. At Mark's grandpa's 90th birthday party on Saturday, Mark's aunt, who I barely know, saw Gus and smiled. "That's my buddy," she said, referring to some encounter she must've had with our outgoing guy. At church yesterday, a pair of elderly women in front of us enthusiastically reached for Gus's outstretched hand at the peace greeting. Instead of ducking his head and going shy like many kids, Gus makes eye contact and speaks loudly and clearly.

In short, these are gifts Gus just has. That kind of confidence is not something someone can easily learn, if at all. Coloring pictures and writing his name, he'll get those.

Finding our way in competitive basketball

When I spotted the flyer for the Menasha boys basketball club at registration, I snapped one up for Ben, thinking this could be just the opportunity for my b-ball-adoring guy. Ben is one of those boys who loves every sport, and shooting hoops has recently taken the No. 1 spot in his heart.

After Mark attended the informational meeting, it became clear this would be no casual engagement. Ben would practice two nights a week, and he already had a fairly full schedule. Though this gave me pause, my oldest boy's enthusiasm remained, so we went for it. Since mid-October, Ben's been attending two 90-minute weeknight practices, and the past two Saturdays, his team has played three games each day - a whopping five-hour time commitment. I don't love sports, but I do love watching my kids play. Still, this has been a lot.

It soon became clear that Ben is a little out of his depth. Yes, he's younger than all of the kids and a good head shorter than many, but the majority of the other boys have been playing in this league for years, and this is Ben's first time. As a result, Ben, for all intents and purposes, has been assigned to the C squad, the bottom tier of his 15-player team. I don't have any quibbles with this. I understand that it must work this way. Ben's gotten to the age where sports become more competitive.

And yet. It's hard to see Ben struggle with his position on the team. He understands full well his place, and it's a blow to his ego. Ben got all of about 90 seconds of play in each half of the game I watched on Saturday. I can understand how that must be so frustrating for him. You can't play because you're not good enough; you can't get better because you're not getting any playing time. I was beginning to worry that competitiveness may just strip Ben of his love of the game. Is this experience really more gratifying than just shooting hoops in the driveway?

Ben's team lost all three of its games two Saturdays ago. After the game, Ben was in tears both as a result of the defeat and because apparently the coach told Ben's group, the C squad, that they didn't even look like they wanted to be there. Right there, the mama grizzly emerged. Who was he to say that to my kid? Surely he wasn't saying MY son didn't want to be there. Ben is all heart, mother_____. (There's an obscure "Jerry Maguire" reference for you.) But seriously, I bet you'd be hard-pressed to find a kid who wants to be there more, who has a purer love of the game.

I'm coming to grips with the fact that my nurturing instincts are at odds with the tougher world of boys (and girls?) sports. Where Ben's coach aims to fire up the team with some provocative words, I'd prefer to give each losing boy a hug and a cookie.

I'd better get used to all of this if Ben is to continue competing. Maybe, just maybe, boys need both - the coach that pushes them toward becoming men, tougher competitors, and the mom who's waiting with a hug and some gentle encouragement.

Ben hits us with the heavy question

It had been going on for months,  Ben sporadically complaining of difficulty falling asleep. He'd be very concerned that Mark and I might fall asleep before him, checking again and again before he'd go to bed- "What are you guys going to do - read, watch TV?" In the summer it was a particular problem because we relax Ben's bedtime rules, letting him stay up until 10:00 some nights, and all three of us often would go to bed at the same time. Those nights I'd be liable to stumble over him sleeping on our floor on a mid-night trip to the bathroom.

We questioned Ben again and again trying to pinpoint his anxiety. He'd just mumble something about not knowing. Finally, one night last week Ben came into our room after trying and failing to fall asleep. He told us he was afraid to die, afraid that he'll die and won't remember anything of his life, that someone he love will die. Wow, heavy. Of course, this isn't the first time Ben's brought up death. When he was younger, he watched "Mickey's Christmas Carol" and was good and terrified after taking in the scene of the Ghost of Christmas Future pushing Scrooge McDuck into an open grave.

Obviously Ben's grown and learned a lot since that viewing. I could tell that this really was weighing on him and that he'd been thinking about it a lot. My oldest is right at the age where he's beginning to understand the immutability and irreversibility of death. I remember going through a similar spell at his age. I was particularly afraid that I would lose one of my parents (though fear of my own demise gripped me when I was a little older).

Our conversation tugged at my heart because it immediately struck me that this is one fear that I can't take away for him. I can't fix it for him. Sure, I can reiterate what our faith teaches us about death, but I don't particularly remember that making it feel less scary for me. I recall my friend's father talking about the fact that Jesus could come back and the world could end any time. He talked about it like it was a good thing, and I was gobsmacked. The idea frankly terrified me.

It's taken me years to accept and become more comfortable with the fact that I and everyone I love will die. At 35, the idea isn't frightening to me the way it once was (though obviously contemplating losing a loved one is no less devastating). So for my part, I tried to impart to Ben that death probably won't always feel so scary for him.

After our conversation, I did a little research on talking to kids about death. Don't sugarcoat the topic, one website urged. Convey that death simply is part of life. Reassure the child that he and you, his parents, will live for a long, long time. The fact that you can't promise this matters little, one site noted.

I think Mark and I did most of this. At the end of our talk, I told Ben that I was glad he brought his fears to us. I told him that worries that are left inside to fester often just grow and grow and that just bringing them out in the open can help immensely. I hope this is true for him. I know that this question is one of many difficult ones that will cross Ben's mind as he grows, and I hope for the good grace to answer each one honestly and intelligently.