This is going to hurt

A few weeks ago after he endured four vaccinations with little more than a grimace and a whimper of pain, I decided to try to cheer up Ben with some stories of pain tolerance, or lack thereof, from my younger days. My kids are so much braver than I ever was.

I had Ben in hysterics telling him about getting my first cavity filled. I locked myself in the family station wagon and refused to get out. I won that battle. My mom had to reschedule the appointment. 

Then there was the time that I decided to nuzzle noses with my pet hamster. It didn't enjoy the nuzzling and instead sunk its teeth into my nose. My mom took me for a tetanus shot. She had to drag me into the office literally screaming, and it took a small cadre of nurses to hold me down and inject me. 

If only I'd known when I was young what a small deal fillings and shots are, in terms of the pains life throws at you. I would've crossed that worry right off my list.

Parenting will break your heart in a thousand different ways. I never know day to day what's going to come way, but I've been doing this long enough to know that most days will test me in some way.

This week brought its trials right on schedule. On Sunday night, Ben said, "Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you, I had this problem in gym class."

It turns out that before we had left for vacation, he couldn't get his gym lock to work, so he left his locker without a lock on it. Another kid, thinking he was helping, stuck a lock on Ben's locker, but it wasn't Ben's lock. Ben returned to school and couldn't get into his gym locker.

When Ben went to his teacher with the problem, the teacher responded sarcastically and basically refused to help. I suppose I can see where the teacher was going with his response - maybe trying to instill natural consequences or something, but it left Ben frustrated and confused. I emailed the teacher to try to get the situation resolved, but I heard nothing.

By Tuesday morning, the day of his next gym class, Ben was crying tears of worry and frustration. I was indignant at the stupidity of the situation with the teacher (just help the kid figure it out!), and he was starting his day upset.

Of course, the situation just blew over, as they so often do. The teacher, though he never responded to me, clearly got my message and removed the lock for Ben. He came out of school that day happy as ever.

It all got me thinking, though, of hard it is to grow up. I know Ben's school tries to ease the sixth-graders into becoming middle-schoolers, but clearly the expectations have risen. I can imagine the panic Ben felt trying to get into his locker, simultaneously trying to ensure he'd make it to class on time.

On top of that, I know that on his journey to manhood, my oldest must be facing fears and frustrations that I can never understand. I can see that Ben is trying very hard to shed some of his youthfulness, but he's still very much just a boy.

With Gus, I've been experiencing a different kind of pain. Each day when I pick him up from school, I tense up waiting for the teacher's report. Most days, she says nothing, and some she notes that he's had a good day. Every once in a while, though, I get a bad report, and yesterday was one of those days.

It never gets any easier, hearing the details of Gus's transgressions. Inevitably, I weirdly feel like I'm the one who's behaved badly and should hang my head in shame. I understand that Gus's behavior can be maddening, but I want his teacher to look for the good in him each day as well as noting what's going wrong. When I feel like that's not happening, it's really hard.

It's a daily battle with my youngest. Sometimes I get complacent when things have gone well for a while, but I need to keep sticking to what's worked in the past. Today I will tremulously hope that a firm reminder of expectations will once again get Gus back on track.

I recently read the excellent Counting by 7s by Holly Goldberg Sloan (great book to read with a little older kids, by the way). In my favorite passage, the young protagonist, Willow, tells about a time that she took care of a wild green-rumped parrot she had found and named Fallen. "When Fallen was finally strong enough to fly, I reintroduced him back to his flock. It was incredibly rewarding. But it was also heartbreaking. It has been my experience that rewarding and heartbreaking often go hand in hand."

As it is with green-rumped parrots, so it is with little boys. Only exponentially more so.