Playing defense

I first picked up on it when I taught swimming lessons in high school. If parents of my pupils thought I'd erred in judgment in my teaching, they would become quite defensive of their kids. I endured having a parent or two yell at me. It was then and there that I crossed one profession off my list of possibilities. Among other reasons, I'm much too thin-skinned to teach.

Eighteen years later, I can much better understand those parents' defensiveness. Though my levelheaded side wants to remain calm and cool in the face of perceived slights against my kids, my mother bear side tends to rear its head, even if I don't usually act on it.

Two Wednesdays ago, Gus had a bad day at school. A spectacularly bad day. When I went to pick him up after school, Gus bypassed the sidewalk, running through the wood chips and darting close to the road. 

When G finally landed safely next to me, his teacher motioned for me to come over. First, she talked to Gus, telling him that what he'd done was unsafe and against the rules. To my mortification, as she talked, he closed his eyes and feigned sleep, complete with snoring sounds. 

Mrs. S. turned her attention to me and informed me that it had been a challenging day for Gus. Furthermore, she said most days up until that point had been rough. He was having a hard time sitting still. He rushed through tasks, refused to take his time on activities like cutting. Feeling blindsided, I thanked her, assured her I'd talk with Gus at home, hung my head low and walked to the car.

I knew that this was a possibility, a strong possibility. That knowledge didn't make the reality any easier to accept, however. I tearfully recounted the series of event to Mark. Then I took to the internet, researching ADHD symptoms. In true Jess fashion, I went from "it's been a bumpy first two weeks" to "but I don't want to medicate my son!" in no time flat.

When I first met Gus's teacher, I thought she'd seemed friendly, laid back. I liked her. But here was this defensiveness rising within me. Irrationally, my feelings began to shift. She's just not a good fit for Gus, I thought. She must not understand preschool boys very well.

Beneath it all was my long-time fear: what if Gus is that child, the one for whom school becomes an unpleasant place. I worry that my boy will be misunderstood, that (even though this hasn't happened yet) he will get stuck in a cycle of losing the privileges he probably needs most - recess, free time. 

We had Gus's conference set for the following Wednesday, and I thought I couldn't possibily wait that long to address the issue. After I calmed myself a bit, I sent a follow-up email to Gus's teacher. She quickly sent a thoughtful reply. He's a great kid, and we'll figure this out together, she reassured.We agreed that I would check in each day after school, and I said that we would try to reinforce school rules at home and tie his behavior at school to his privileges at home.

Nearly two weeks removed from that unfortunate Wednesday, I see now that Gus's teacher probably was exasperated that day. I, of all people, should be able to relate. Lord knows how exasperating my youngest can be. And I needed a reminder that teachers deserve to have "off" days too. I cannot imagine teaching 20 4- and 5-year-olds.

Each day before school now, I review expectations with Gus. Be a good listener. When an adult is speaking to you, look at her eyes. Amazingly, I've received good reports every day since then. Don't get me wrong. There's no miraculous transformation here - just each day getting a little better.

We had Gus's conference last week. We learned that G responds extremely well to positive feedback. The other day, he was beyond excited to come home and tell the whole family that he'd earned three cougar paws. His school distributes these for positive behavior.

We're trying now to use school terminology at home. We talk about demonstrating good body basics at the dinner table, at church. We even hand out our own cougar paws here. I feel better these days. I view Gus's teacher as a partner who is helping us find the best ways to educate our very active boy.

 

Gus is the child who can be impulsive, the one who, on our walk today, couldn't scooter more than a few feet without stopping to pluck a wispy dandelion going to seed. I wouldn't change a thing. He is my occasional headache; he is my always laughter.

 

I don't think there'll be a point anytime soon in Gus's education where I can breathe a sigh of a relief: ahh, smooth sailing from here on out. I think I'll always hold my breath each day until I hear Gus has had an OK day. As I told his teacher, it's trial and error with this one. The best we can do is take it a day at a time and keep looking for the strategies that work. It's going to be a long journey, but I'm confident now that we can do this.

The changes have begun – the big ones

"Do you have children?" the woman next to me in yoga asks as we engage in polite small talk. I reply that yes, I have three boys, the oldest of whom will be 11 in a couple weeks. She looks at me, incredulous. (It's the face. I've always had one of those young-looking faces, but if she saw me out at, say, Target by myself with all three boys looking tired and haggard, boy would she believe me. Child-rearing is the perfect antidote to that too-young-looking countenance, I'm telling you! It'll knock that youthful vitality right out of you.)

Anyway, it's true. My boy is almost 11. I can scarcely understand how we got here so quickly, but I do the math, and it's inevitable – Ben is a tween. The intervening 11 years have changed me - emotionally, physically and otherwise. (Especially physically. I used to have breasts. Swear to God. Then I spent years nursing three children, and now I could more successfully shop for bras of the training variety. The things we moms sacrifice! Let's not even get into pelvic floor muscles.)

As much as time has altered me, it's nothing compared to the number it's working on Ben. This is the time, the period when everything starts to change. It started toward the end of summer. My oldest suddenly began to take more interest in hygiene. He'd begin most mornings with an unprompted shower. Say what?

"Um, Mom?" he asked hesitantly a few days after cross country practice began. "Do you think you could get me some deodorant? Coach says we should all be using it."

This is all so odd to me. I hadn't begun to detect the tell-tale funky smell that often accompanies tweens of a certain age, but I honored Ben's request. He's taken to using his dad's bath products and emerges from the steamy bathroom each morning smelling manly. It's a little disquieting.

Ben began the school year gung ho. That first week of school, he'd pop right out of bed, up and at 'em, enthusiastic for his new adventures. Already that's beginning to change. He needs to be at his bus stop at about 7 a.m., a feat that would be challenging even for me, but this early wake-up time runs completely counter to tween and teen biology.

It's getting harder and harder to rouse Ben in the morning, and already I can envision all the mornings for the next seven years that I'll be dragging him out of bed by his feet. (I can still hear my mom's chirping calls to us in middle and high school. "Wake up, wake up, wake up!" In the winter when I was in junior high, I'd often fall asleep in front of a space heater and nearly, or sometimes completely, miss my bus. Gosh, I hated junior high.)

Can scarfing down enormous amounts of food be far behind? And as yet, I'm not seeing signs of interest in girls, but I'm sure that isn't too far off. And then I think I'll lose a little piece of him forever.

As much as these are strange times for me, I'm so pleased with how Ben is doing. He does his homework dutifully each night, no complaints. The second week of cross country, my guy was named athlete of the week for demonstrating hard work and leadership. "Ben is our rock star," his coach said at open house last night. "He works so hard."

Ben's English teacher praised him for how much he participates in class, saying he was a leader to the other kids. I burst with pride at how well he is turning out. We're beginning to see the benefits of many years spent shaping Ben into a person of character.

I knew this would be a transition year for us, and truly everything feels different. Ben leaves a full hour before I drive Paul to school. With cross country practice after school, piano on Tuesdays, faith formation on Wednesdays, soccer a couple nights a week, I feel like I don't get to see my oldest very often. I miss him. And this will be life from here on out, I suspect.

Harry Chapin was on to something with that whole Cats in the Cradle thing. I spent years desperately trying to carve out a little bit of time to myself, and now well ... "When you comin' home son
I don't know when, but we'll get together then, [Mom], We're gonna have a good time then."

Reply hazy, try again later

Ben has come home from sixth grade each day this week proclaiming the awesomeness of middle school. Paul? He loves second grade, especially his teacher, Mrs. Burns, who "never yells." (She's one up on Mommy there.) Gus digs 4K, and his favorite is recess, just as it should be.

Everyone is doing great but me. I feel utterly adrift. I didn't see this coming. I've waited nearly eight years for this, right? Three hours a day of uninterrupted time to myself. Now that the time has arrived it feels ... weird.

The house seems unnaturally quiet. On Thursday, after sitting at home and listening to the sounds of silence for two and a half hours, I finally grabbed my book and headed to school early to sit in the car and wait for Paul and Gus to be finished.

A fellow 4K mom stood swaying her sleeping toddler son tethered to her in a carrier. I felt envious. You spend years with a child jabbering constantly in the back seat of the car. Maybe you wish for just a little bit of peace and quiet. The day to day wears you down, all that buckling and unbuckling, in and out of the car with your young one. Then suddenly that time in your life comes to a close, and it's a little devastating.
 

Yes, Gus still is with me half the day, but really, this feels like the beginning of the end. I know all too well, after all, how quickly a school year passes. Best not be blasé about having plenty of time left.

I've been at this stay-at-home mom gig for so long, I'm suffering a bit of an identity crisis. Who am I without a kid with me all day? It's unsettling because when I peer into the Magic 8 Ball of my future, I see ... nothing.

It's perfectly honorable, of course, to remain a stay-at-home mom when all of one's kids are in school full-time. Lord knows there's plenty to do. I never really saw that for myself, though. My family will always be my No. 1 priority, but I want to do something more, even if it's just a little something. But what?

My plan has long been that I'd take my extra time this year and explore my options. I look at every opportunity, each help wanted sign. Would I be happy doing before and after school care for the Y, working part-time in a coffee shop? Freelance writing, work-from-home jobs, I've considered it all. I've been out of the game so long that it all feels foreign to me.

I've thought about going back to school. Culinary school. I'm passionate about cooking. Or maybe I'd like to become a paralegal. But I already have a degree. Do I really have the focus for that right now, and do I want to put my family in debt? This is the inner dialog of my days.

I have a hard time being at peace with uncertainty. Since that's all I've got right now, though, all I can do is appreciate that I have this time to search and try to enjoy the journey. Maybe shed a few tears for time that has passed too quickly. Wish me well.