Please practice (being someone you're not)

Summer school came to a close last Thursday, and with it came Gus's progress report. When it comes to my youngest, I view these assessments with a little trepidation because I know they're bound to bring me some angst.

Gus participated in the early learners class. This was his second go-around. With his mid-August birthday and his, shall we say, maturity deficit, Mark and I had been gathering information to try to determine the best course for Gus. He did early learners as a 3-year-old last summer, and we enrolled him in three-day-a-week preschool last fall, seeking structure and looking for help in deciding whether to hold Gus back a year. Ultimately, we decided to do just that.

This summer, Gus had the same teacher as last. The first day that I picked him up, his teacher told me that my guy had made such progress between this year and last. It was like night and day, she said. Hurray for preschool! I was feeling good, optimistic.

When I looked at his report card this year, Big G had definitely improved over last. His fine motor skills have come a long way. He no longer mixes up pink and purple. He's articulate, expressing needs and wants clearly, though that was never an issue.

I must say, though, I was a little crestfallen to see that Gus still received "P" marks - for "please practice" - in the areas of listening to adult instruction and attending to tasks like listening to stories. I shouldn't be surprised. These have always been a struggle for G, but I keep holding out hope that this will magically improve for him.

This is new territory for me. Ben and Paul have sailed through school with next to no behavior issues. Sure, they may need a reminder from time to time to stop chatting or get back to work, but mostly I think they're pretty easy kids to have in class. As a major rule follower myself, it's always mildly mortifying to me when Gus can't seem to follow instructions.

When I volunteered in Paul's class this past year, a couple of boys perpetually had difficulty following the rules. One, in particular, often had to take his work and sit in the hall. Paul's teacher sometimes would take away recess time, often telling the boy that she would need to write another note home to his parents, sending him into a talespin.

Watching the situation in Paul's class unfold, I couldn't help but worry: what if Gus turns out that way? Kids need consequences. I know that and don't take issue with it. Yet it pains me to imagine Gus on the receiving end of this. I'm speculating wildly here, but it's hard to resist falling into that.

Thinking about the situation, I kept coming back to the idea that this simply is how Gus was made, and I've found it really difficult to change that. I wish I knew how to please practice getting him to be a better listener, but I don't. I try to be consistent, to keep structure in his life, but beyond that, I'm at a loss. Before Gus, I didn't give much thought to kids like him. In fact, I probably was a little judgmental. Believe me, I understand now.

A couple months ago, I listened to a public radio program about kids with ADHD. Gus, as far as I know, doesn't have that condition, but as my doctor told me, there's a continuum of normal behaviors for kids. Gus undoubtedly struggles with impulse control.

Anyway, the expert on the program I heard talked about kids with ADHD as square pegs in round holes. I see Gus as that. I think the next few years will bring some difficulties for him. I've heard time and again that kindergarten and the early years of elementary school are more suited to a girl's nature, that they have an easier time handling the expectations of focusing and sitting quietly.

Observing Gus at rug time in preschool this past year, I could just see his attention begin to take a nosedive. He'd be fine at the beginning, but the longer we sat, the antsier he got. He wants, needs to be active, not sitting. But of course a lot of school requires just that.

I'm trying to prepare myself emotionally for some struggles ahead. It's hard not to take it personally, to resist being defensive of your child. With practice and consistency, I hope that the demands of school will become easier for Gus. In the long run, though, I'm confident that Gus's exuberance will serve him well, that my square peg will find his place in the world.

Remembering Grandpa's cabin

As I was going for my morning run in today's sickening heat, something about the terrain I crossed triggered a memory of what it was like when we used to vacation at my grandpa's cabin. And just like that I was awash in nostalgia.

My Grandpa Ceman was part owner of a cabin in Drummond, WI, in the northernmost part of the state. From the time I was very young, my family took its annual summer vacation in Drummond. I'm sure that when I was 4 or 5 or so, I loved the place. However, all I can really remember is hating it.

I didn't hate the experience, of course, being with my family (though maybe sometimes I did). No, the actual place, it disgusted me. The cabin was red. The lone shower in the lone bathroom (minus the outhouse, of course) was red, too. It was covered in rust and was creepier than any Bates Motel shower. Only iron-tinged water ran through the pipes there, so the bathroom had that distinct aroma.

The place, at large, smelled of mildew. Dampness embedded deeply each bunk bed and all the furniture. The rampant moldiness sent my childhood asthma into overdrive many a summer.

I have a hard time pinpointing what got to me most. My grandpa and his friends (and his friends' families, etc.) used the place from time to time, of course. To this day, I still have neuroses about using things that aren't mine.  "Is that a cabin spoon?" is a running joke that my family still has when we vacation together. I'm a home body at heart and soon begin to long for my own space no matter where I am.

Back in the good old days, Mom and Dad would pack one of our perpetually breaking-down vehicles to the gills, and we'd make the six-hour trek to Drummond, always stopping at the Dairy Queen Brazier in Tomahawk to eat. We used car-top carriers to haul all our stuff. We lost my favorite Wonder Woman sleeping bag on one trip when it rolled off the top of the car. One of our cars was a giant Buick station wagon. It had a rear-facing seat. We called it the way back and fought over who got to sit there.

My parents invited various family friends to stay with us. Some of those people, whom we know only tangentially now, I wonder, why on earth did they invite them? Mostly, though, we spent time there with our dearest family friends, the Hammers, as well as friends of my brothers and me.

My best friend, Crystal, and I spent many a summer day there. Here we are, at left. I don't think Crystal was as prissy as I was, but in a show of solidarity, she, like me, decided to forgo showering for most the days we spent there, instead taking our inner tubes and a bar of soap out to Lake Drummond, just down the path from the cabin. Sorry, environment!

My brothers and I feasted on junk food and swilled cans of Jolly Good soda in flavors like grape, fruit punch and pina colada, blissfully unaware of the evils of high-fructose corn syrup and artificial colors. We didn't have a lot of money growing up. At home, my mom usually bought glass bottles of Springtime Soda, the kind that we'd drink and bring the empties back to the grocery store. Drinking our own cans of soda was a big treat.

Stargazing was second to none at the cabin. With virtually no light pollution, we could sit in our lawn chairs around the fire and take in the night sky in all its glory, intermittently playing silly games like telephone.

My parents brought us on all kinds of great adventures when we were there. We'd visit places of natural beauty like Amnicon Falls or Copper Falls. As something special, we might drive to Bayfield and take the ferry across to Madeline Island. Sometimes we'd go to Hayward and eat fudge or trek to Duluth to look at the giant ships. And, of course, I spent a lot of time bellyaching about the many hikes we took.

I'm sorry to say, I spent a lot of time complaining away my time in Drummond. As I headed into my teen years, this only grew worse. I took my boys to Sunset Beach in Kimberly yesterday and was dumbstruck to realize that it was 21 years ago - more than half my lifetime - that I fell in love for the first time at 15 years old at that very beach. Yes, I was that teenage girl who was perpetually falling in and out of love.

The guy was Raimon, an exchange student visiting from Barcelona. Raimon was staying with our friends, the Hammers. My family went to Drummond that summer, without the Hammers, and I was heartbroken and angry to spend precious time away from Raimon. This is a picture of my family with Carlos, our exchange student and now a lifelong friend, on the last day of our trip. Look how happy I am! How happy we all are, really.

A few years before my grandpa died in 2001, he sold his share of the cabin. The buyer renovated the place. It was quite the transformation, but I must say, it's that old ramshackle red cabin that holds a special place in my heart. My family stayed there a few times since then, but we've long since found other vacation locales. It's been a good 14 or 15 years since I've been there.

On days like today, I still feel pangs, missing the halcyon times we spent in Drummond, many days that I squandered.

Truth be told, I haven't changed a lot since then. I still love my creature comforts, and if you plunked me back down in that old cabin, I might well long for my home after a few days. My parents, however, have instilled a love of nature in me. Hiking is one of my favorite pastimes now, and I feel most at peace walking through the woods. My parents, in fact, who didn't have much, gave us so many rich experiences.

Each summer, we take a summer vacation with my side of the family. We're forgoing it this year in favor of a trip Mark and the boys and I will take with my parents to Orlando in November. I'm feeling wistful about skipping summer vacation.

I've always been lukewarm about camping, but for my boys, I'm going to make a point of having us get out there more. I want to give the boys the same gift my parents gave me.

I'm thankful for the many weeks we spent in Drummond. Those memories will stay with me always, crystalline, perfect in their imperfection.

The bad parenting habit I wish I could break

My middle child is a sensitive soul. At 7, Paul still loves to crawl into my lap and hear a story. He is artistic and thoughtful. Paulie loves animals, especially birds. When I told him he should become an ornithologist, he said, no, that his job simply would be to take care of baby birds.

On the flip side, Paul is the only one of my boys who ever minded when I left him someplace, and boy did he mind. He would throw grand tantrums when I dropped him off at preschool. I'm not talking a few tears. I mean he would follow me, howling, grabbing onto me in an effort to prevent my departure. I think I'm still scarred from those memories. Even dropping him off on the first day of summer school this year, Paul was a little weepy. Yes, he takes a bit to warm up, but he's a loyal and attentive friend.

I suppose it's fitting, then, that Paul is the one who is most sensitive to my yelling. Ben just kind of rolls his eyes when I raise my voice or gets angry right back, Gus seems oblivious most of the time (though of late he's been parroting his brothers - "OK, OK, you don't have to yell!"), but Paul takes it personally.

Paul and Gus's summer school classes start at 7:45, and though that's just 30 minutes earlier than the normal school day, it's really hard to get out the door on time. It seems that it's always a mad rush. The other morning, I was trying to guide Gus into putting on his own shoes. Paul started laughing at his brother and distracting him. "Paul! Stop it!" I roared.

Instantly, my boy looked wounded. On the way into school, I apologized to Paul for yelling. "That's OK, I forgive you," he said sweetly. When I get it wrong, I always take the opportunity to explain to the boys and say I'm sorry. Thank God for forgiveness.

It seems that even when I think I'm in control of my emotions, Paul can pick up on my irritation. We were trying to leave the house to eat supper at my parents' last week. I had asked the boys to put their shoes on (we have a lot of battles over shoes in this house, I notice) and they'd ignored me. Ben did something to Paul, and he got hurt. Paul was whimpering, still shoeless. I don't even recall what it was, but I was not feeling too sympathetic.

"Paul. Put on your shoes, and get in the car," I intoned.

"You're talking to me in an angry voice!" he sobbed.

I wasn't. I was taking great pains not to shout. But he's so attuned, I guess he can even pick up on it when I'm being passive aggressive. Man, I can't get away with anything.

The summer can be a challenging time around here. Togetherness breeds bickering, and I spend a lot of time resolving disputes. I'm perpetually reminding the boys to shut the door. It's a stupid thing to get worked up about, but yet it makes me tense every day.

The boys love to play in our sandbox. On Tuesday, Paul and Gus came into the house caked in the stuff up to their knees. Immediately before that, Gus had tried to clean himself off using the hose. It was spraying full-blast, and he couldn't control it and kept accidentally spraying himself in the face and aiming it at the screen door. I couldn't even get to him for fear that I'd be doused. I suppose it would have been if I hadn't been so livid. Here's what the tub looked like after Paul and Gus's midday bath.

Yelling is a terrible parenting habit, and I'm ashamed to say that I do it too often. I suppose it's mostly borne of simple frustration. Also, I probably resort to shouting to make myself heard over the voices of three boisterous kids. Either way, I hate that I do it but have a hard time stopping.

I have a whole collection of books that I mean to read but never get around to cracking: a tome on the purpose of boys, various self-help titles. Do you think if I put my Scream-Free Parenting book on my nightstand that I'll absorb its contents by osmosis? I have lots of books situated there, and unfortunately that magic hasn't happened for me yet.

Until I get around to finding a solution that works for me, I guess I'll just keep renewing my daily pledge to myself to stop the shouting, not to mention seeking a lot of forgiveness. Needless to say, this is important to me. When the boys look back on their childhood, I want them to remember a mom who was calm and loving, not one who was on edge all the time.

So what do you think? Got any keep-your-cool strategies for me?

Sometimes success requires a little push

It dawned me that I've been writing about Ben a lot recently. He sure has been schooling me about what it's like to be the parent of a tween. So here we go again.

As I wrote earlier, this summer, Ben made the switch from baseball to soccer. He plays on the recreational league for the Menasha Area Soccer Club. While Ben, in my not-so-objective opinion, is a strong player and athlete in general, his team has struggled mightily this season. In the team's best game, they tied. On a good day, they may lose 7-1. On a bad day? They lose 15-0 and the opposing team undeniably begins to take mercy on our poor kids. The cheering dies down for the other team's many goals, and the parents and coaches start to laud every little good thing our team does. 

It's been a tough season. It's difficult for the kids, who seem to grow ever more beaten down with every goal scored on them. And it's challenging for the parents, who if they're like me, don't need to see wins. We just want to see our kids having fun and making progress, but a lot of times, they just look dejected.

This is the place from which we were operating when I received an email that tryouts for competitive league were upcoming. "Do you want to do this, Ben?" I asked the day before the tryouts.

"Yeah, I'll do it," he said, sounding enthusiastic, hopeful.

Friday, the day of the tryouts, rolled around, and Ben began to hedge. Suddenly, he wasn't so sure he wanted to go through with it. 

Ben has been burned before. Last year, he tried out for the tournament team for baseball. He didn't make it, but the coaches didn't even inform us of that. They just carried on without so much as a word. Then there was basketball. Ben was a newcomer when he joined last fall. He did his best, but it turned out that it just wasn't for him. It was a long season, and the experience was making him miserable. We ended up deciding, with Ben, to have him quit the team mid-season.

So Ben's already-shaky confidence has been wounded. Despite that, I don't want to see Ben making decisions just because he might fail. I see my oldest as someone who thrives on competition and activity. I saw a boy who wanted to do something but was letting fear stand in his way.

Mark and I set in trying to persuade him to change his mind. "Ben," I said, "if you think you'd like to play soccer later in life, like in high school, I think this is an opportunity you shouldn't pass up."

Ben is absolutely brilliant at twisting my words. This feature must come standard with kids his age. "Mom said that I'll never play soccer in high school if I don't do this!" he wailed a little later in our conversation.

Our boy clearly was in a lot of angst, and it anguishes me when he looks all tortured. And yet, Mark and I really believed this experience of trying out - even if he didn't make it - would be valuable for him. 

The boys were scheduled to stay at my parents' Friday night so we could go out for Mark's birthday. Ben finally came around and agreed to go to the tryout, and we made a stop to watch and offer support after dinner.

Ben did great. His skill level definitely matched that of the other boys there. Mark chatted with the coach afterward, and it quickly became clear that Ben had made the team, that the only formality was figuring out the correct team on which to place him. The enormous grin that spread across Ben's face upon hearing the news erased every bit of "pain and torture" we'd inflicted on him earlier. 

Ben may not be able to understand until he's an adult that all of these life experiences - the successes and, maybe even more importantly, the failures - help create us. That's why I'm going to keep trying to nudge him toward these trials, even though some turn out to be painful.

This is hard, deciding the right way to steer Ben. No pressure, though, right? We're only helping him become the person he's meant to be.

Friendly persuasion

I can't help but marvel at how the tables have turned. As few as two years ago, I didn't worry a bit about Ben's social life. Paul, on the other hand, I had big concerns. Both years he spent in preschool, he didn't really bond with the other kids. He came away without a single solid friendship. I was really concerned for Paul going into kindergarten.

Fast forward to today, and everything is the opposite. Paul has friends aplenty. He's got a best buddy, and he establishes new relationships with ease. He has no fear of calling up someone and asking to play. Now, Ben, I'm a little concerned.

By all indications, Ben does fine socially in school. He hangs with a group of boys at lunch and recess. A sports lover, my oldest seems to gravitate toward the jocks, a crowd of boys destined for a popularity that I don't see Ben reaching. But I digress. Figuring out that stuff is all part of growing up.

I have no desire for Ben to be popular. On the contrary. I was no popularity queen when I was Ben's age (quite the opposite, to tell the truth), so I take a dim view of that whole game. No, all I want is for Ben to have at least a small group of close friends, but that seems to be a struggle for him.

Kids from Ben's class don't call, and he doesn't call them either. Rarely if ever does he have people over to the house or go anywhere. For Mark and me, this is tough. In high school, Mark was shy and rarely did anything with his peers. He regrets that, and it's hard for him to see our son on the same path.

More often than not, we turn to nagging. "Ben, why don't you call Kobe?" "Go and see if the neighbor can play!" Sometimes we go so far as compelling him to call two or three people. This goes about as well as you'd expect, and we feel powerless to help.

The other day, we were at Paul's soccer game, and one of Ben's classmates was there. "Look Ben, it's Mac!" I said. "Why don't you go over and say hi?" I coaxed, knowing full well that he wouldn't.

When Mac walked by a little later, I tried again, prompting Ben to say hello. He waved weakly and mumbled. "Oh, guess he didn't see me," he said. When his classmate came past a final time, instead of saying hi, Ben got a sudden and curious urge to cheer for Paul vociferously. Yeah, I wasn't buying it.

It's such a tricky situation. Ben is an introvert, no doubt. He's happy reading books two or three hours a day. That's great, but both Mark and I worry that now is the time when he really needs to make connections with his peers. We fear that if he doesn't put himself out there now, he may be left behind.

I've been reading the book, The Purpose of Boys. In it, the author notes that boys tend to bond over activities. They're more comfortable chatting while throwing a ball back and forth than having a deep conversation.

In the end, it's not up to Mark or me. At 10, Ben's well past the age of us setting up play dates for him. We'll have to trust him to make his own choices. I'll keep the bit of knowledge from the book in mind, though, and try to work my influence subtly. Ben does like activities, so we'll encourage him to pursue those, and hope that he'll foster some friendships along the way.

For all of the aforementioned reasons, I'm so relieved that my boys all have one another. They bicker plenty, but as Paul is fond of saying, they're best buddies. And that is a lot.

Reflections on an elementary school career

Kindergarten

First grade

Third grade

Fourth grade

"It's my last full day of elementary school!" he said gleefully, a broad smile playing across his tan face, as he exited the minivan yesterday. My heart seized a little bit when he said this. It's not as if this hadn't resonated with me already. Ben's declaration was just my latest reminder.

Fifth grade

Whether I've been fretting over the looming middle school years or trying to process the realities that my son might face as he gets older, this transition has taken up a lot of my mind space in the past few months. Much of what I'm feeling is a wonderment at how quickly the years have passed, and I don't know if it's the state of the last several years or just time's funny tricks. Granted, we didn't anticipate Ben spending one less year in elementary school.

Ben's first day of kindergarten was a scant two weeks after Gus was born, and I was still such an emotional mess on that first day of school. Gus was not an easy baby or, for that matter, an easy toddler. He was colicky, and then once he became mobile, he was a bigger handful than ever. Things really didn't get easier until he turned 4. I can safely say that I spent most of kindergarten, first and third grades in a haze of stress. In the intervening years, we've sent Paul to school and Gus to preschool, and I'm scratching my head trying to figure out how it's been nearly five years since we started this adventure.

I'll try not to bemoan this, because every parent knows of what I describe. Instead, I'll take a short walk down memory lane. I'm so thankful to our school and to each of Ben's teachers. Class sizes have only grown since Ben enrolled, but every one of his teachers has taken the time and effort to look out for our boy and his needs. In the past five years, Ben has learned a dizzying amount, and it's been so gratifying to watch.

I often feel wistful for the time that has passed. There's no way around it. The process of kids growing is irrevocably painful, but it's exciting, too. How amazing is it that Mark and I can have real, nearly adult conversations with our son now?

I will steal a bit from the series finale of "The Office," and I'll do it badly, because I don't remember the exact words Andy Bernard spoke. It was something along the lines of not knowing you're in the best time of your life until it comes to an end. We're in that best time right now, the halcyon days. So let's stay right here, cause these are the good old days.

A piece of advice: be your child's advocate

When Mark and I were going through the process of deciding whether to accelerate Ben from first to third grade, the teachers and principal helping us left us with one big message. No matter what you choose to do, you need to be an advocate for your child. Three years later, we're still following that advice, and this past week we've had to put it to the test.

Ben has been receiving gifted-talented services since first grade. Last Wednesday, we received a letter telling us that he no longer qualified. The reason for the decision is a little long and hard to explain. I will try to make a long story short. While Ben's scored extremely well on the MAPS, an academic test the districts uses, and the gifted-talented assessment, his WKCE (state standardized test) scores did not hold up as well when compared to scores across the nation. For that reason, the district decided to remove him from the G-T roster for next fall.

We had spent years working with teachers to get Ben's needs met. A team from Ben's school helped us make the decision to advance Ben to third grade. I know Menasha faces many challenges as a district, but I felt confident in its teachers and administrators. As I read the letter, I felt stunned, like the district had suddenly and unceremoniously abandoned Ben. 

In the days that followed, as the news sunk in, our anger and bafflement only grew. We know Ben is gifted, and his classroom teacher was just as surprised as we were when we approached her with the news. All along, we've had teachers telling us that it's hard for them to meet Ben's needs, and suddenly the one thing that had helped keep Ben on the radar was being taken away.

The frustration that we felt is what so many parents feel, I'm sure. When making important decisions about a child's education, it's vital to look at all the aspects of that individual. It's not right to reduce him or her to a number, a score. And that is exactly what we felt was happening. Every other bit of evidence pointed to Ben needing these services, but one piece excluded him, and that was it.

We had a phone conversation and then a face-t0-face meeting with the district's G-T coordinator. He was sympathetic but steadfast in his refusal to reconsider, arguing that changing the standards for Ben would "open the floodgates," forcing the district to re-examine every child whose parents received a letter (hmmm ... not a bad idea, now that you mention it). "Do I think Ben is gifted? Yes," he said, only adding to our consternation.

When we pressed the coordinator, we learned that a handful of kids were in Ben's same situation (not exactly a flood of kids) with high scores on the two tests and lower on the WKCE. Something did not seem right about that. We knew that the bar was set higher for the WKCE this past fall. Kids may have performed similarly to the previous year, but their scores may have been lower because of the new standards. Perhaps, we thought, this wasn't the best year to make decisions about taking kids out of G-T based on that test.

It didn't take long for us to decide to take our grievance to the next level of administration, the director of curriculum. We had a meeting this morning and went in ready for a fight. Mark had a speech all prepared, stating explicitly that we wanted Ben placed back in G-T.

Mark began to talk. When he reached the point at which he described accelerating Ben, the director stopped us. "What? Did you say Ben was accelerated?" 

Aha. She didn't have the whole picture. This was my point. Each child who was cut from the program deserved a close and thorough look. In the end, I don't think the missing information was even the deciding factor, but it didn't take long for the director to tell us that Ben had been reinstated into the program. 

The news came so quickly, it was almost like a TV show or movie, where the person doesn't hear the good news and just keeps arguing. Say what? Mark didn't even get to finish his speech! I practically broke down in tears of relief, so stressed had I been for the past week.

I don't want to blame the district, and I don't harbor any ill will (or much, anyway). But I do know that bit of long-ago advice came in handy. We advocated for Ben, and it worked. We got him what we felt he needed. It wasn't easy. I'm not comfortable being pushy, but it was so worth it.

Your situations may not be exactly like ours. Paul falls somewhere more in the middle of the pack. Gus has a whole set of different issues (we may well need to advocate for him in completely different ways). In a time when school districts are stressed to the max, we as parents really need to step up to make sure our kids' needs are being met.

I share my story in hopes that it might help you. Fight. Fight for your kids.