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.