Yesterday, dropping Griffin off at school was a sweet experience. It is not always so...actually, it is not usually so. Most of the time it is hectic and rushed with a dose of tongue lashing thrown in. We are dealing with my Griffin, after all.
My Griffin who marches to his own drummer. My Griffin who would rather be in the present moment than preparing for a future one. My Griffin who has trouble staying on task. My Griffin who forgets important details--alot. Details like--oh, I don't know--lunches, homework, jackets, books, underwear...those sorts of details. My Griffin who, by the time we reach school, makes me want to pull all my hair out, dance crazy on it, and take a Xanex.
But that wasn't the case yesterday. Yesterday, when he got out of the car after his sister, he said, as he usually does, "I love you, Mom," and as I watched him walk away, the view of his untied shoes, legs that are quickly outgrowing his pants, and that rooster tail on the back of his little red head pierced my heart with an aching tenderness. Before I could stop myself, I honked the horn. He turned, his face a question mark until I blew him a kiss, and fast as lightening his hand shot out to grab it, his expression turning to delight. Our little sign from preschool days, remembered.
In that flash, I glimpsed that little person, my baby boy: He is still there. I could see him. And he is, always to be, My Griffin.
Showing posts with label griffin. Show all posts
Showing posts with label griffin. Show all posts
Saturday, December 22, 2012
Monday, May 16, 2011
Acts of Chivalry
On Wednesday I went to "Moms and Muffins" in my son's first grade class. It was adorable. He welcomed me with all the chivalry his 7 year old spirit could muster.
"Thank you for coming," he said as he led me to his desk and pulled out my chair. He lovingly placed the paper lei that he had made himself around my neck. Then he showed me his many gifts. The laminated poem with a handwritten note on the back: I love you, Mom. Love Griffin, it said. The hand written and illustrated book he had made described all the things that make me special. (Did you know that I can do a backflip off the diving board and the thing I do best is diving and swimming with dolphins. I didn't either. Not until I read his book. I am much more amazing than I thought.) Then he asked me what I would like to drink, "Lemonade or water?" and he asked me what I would like to eat, "Blueberry or chocolate muffin?" and then he waited on me, and when, because he had to wait until his group's number was called and didn't have anything to eat or drink yet, I asked him if he wanted some of mine, he hesitated only a moment before refusing. "No. That's for you," he gallantly replied. Like I said, it was an amazingly chivalrous day, and I loved every minute of it.
I even wore my paper lei all that day. But, you can't keep everything, which is what I said to myself when I threw the paper lei in the garbage yesterday as I cleaned up the kitchen. I had lovingly stored away the book and the laminated poem, but the paper lei was just too unwieldy. Besides, he would never even know...
...until he returned home from school and found it laying in the garbage can. "Mom? What was this doing in the garbage?" he accused as he walked into the living room, the paper lei swinging from his index finger.
And then I did what every good mother would do. I lied. "What? That was in the garbage can? How did that get there? Maybe the baby put it in there. Boy! I sure am glad you found it!"
And he was amazingly chivalrous as he laid it gently in my hands. "Me, too," he said. "Me, too." As for the fact that I blamed a two year old? Well, I've been thinking about that, and I've decided he can take it. It's chivalry in training.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Goin' In (the finale)
The next morning I wake the kids, feed them breakfast, and tell Griffin to get his shoes on.
"I don't need any shoes. I'm not going to school," he argues.
This little red flag induces me to warn, "Right, but you're going to need your shoes 'cause you're going to work like you've never worked before." In my mind, I know this day is going to have to hurt or I could be digging myself a huge hole. "While you're at school, I have all kinds of work to do. If you're not going to do your job, then you will have to help me do mine."
Let the slave driving begin.
From 8:30 am until noon we do all my jobs and them some without stopping. He washes the car mats, makes beds, helps with the laundry, cleans toilets, dusts, washes counters, washes windows, weeds, waters flowers and trees, vacuums, and mows the lawn. And because he is only six, I work right alongside him. Now most days I work hard, but this day? This day makes me tired. But Griffin? He works like a maniac and doesn't complain once.
And that's when I get a little insight into my boy. I think if it were the 1800's and we were homesteading somewhere in the Midwest, this kid would rock. He belongs outdoors, sweaty and busy. But this is 2010, and now we only sweat in our off times.
At noon we break for lunch, and then it's on to schoolwork. Because it is a half day at school, the teacher doesn't have a lot to send home, but not to be deterred in my evil plan of torture, I cull through the workbooks I have in the closet and pull out worksheets that supplement what they are working on in class. I don't tell them they weren't part of his teacher's packet. To be even that more torturous, I insist he practice his penmanship which is atrocious. Overall, I find that he is a good sport. Unlike my oldest, this one actually listens to me, and I realize that--if I had to--I could probably homeschool him. And then I wonder if maybe that isn't what's best for him right now...except that he needs people like everyone else needs air...oh, why is parenting so complex? Why is it that we must search so hard for the answers?
In the end, I still don't know what the right answer is for my boy, so I ask his opinion. At some point during these two days at home I asked him again what he meant when he said that he didn't feel "ready." And I said that if, in fact, he didn't feel ready for first grade there were three options I could think of and that I would be okay with any of them (and that really was the truth.) "Son, if you don't feel ready, the first option would be to do kindergarten again. There wouldn't be anything wrong with that, and then you could review all of the stuff you need to know and feel more ready next year." Griffin didn't like that idea. "Okay...the second option is that I could teach you at home." Admittedly I held my breath on this one, but if that's what it came to, I could do it. Gratefully he shook his head on that one as well. "Alright then, the third option is that you go back to school and do what it is that you need to do to be successful in first grade, which means obeying the rules." He thought it over and agreed that he wanted to go back to school.
Once that decision was made, however, he also thought he should be able to go to soccer practice later that evening, and I was tempted. Sorely tempted. Because the real truth is, I don't enjoy taking things away from my kiddos. In fact, I would rather give them everything, including soccer practice. Ultimately, though, what I really want to give them is character, and that is something worth fighting for.
I am beginning to realize that there is no easy solution, no overnight success kit in raising kids. No. The answers come through a process. I wish I could report that Griffin went back to school the next day and was a brand new child, but that wouldn't be the truth. The truth is, he has had good days and bad, but he is trying. He is learning, growing, attempting, and sometimes failing, but more often succeeding, too.
The process of change is written slowly, in bursts and spurts two steps forward and one step back, I think. And it's not just the goin' in that counts, it's the quiet resolve to see it through. It's the willingness to patiently stick with it, even on the step back days. It's not getting discouraged, or at least not remaining there. It's celebrating the small victories. It's not just goin' in...it's stayin' in until the very end.
"I don't need any shoes. I'm not going to school," he argues.
This little red flag induces me to warn, "Right, but you're going to need your shoes 'cause you're going to work like you've never worked before." In my mind, I know this day is going to have to hurt or I could be digging myself a huge hole. "While you're at school, I have all kinds of work to do. If you're not going to do your job, then you will have to help me do mine."
Let the slave driving begin.
From 8:30 am until noon we do all my jobs and them some without stopping. He washes the car mats, makes beds, helps with the laundry, cleans toilets, dusts, washes counters, washes windows, weeds, waters flowers and trees, vacuums, and mows the lawn. And because he is only six, I work right alongside him. Now most days I work hard, but this day? This day makes me tired. But Griffin? He works like a maniac and doesn't complain once.
And that's when I get a little insight into my boy. I think if it were the 1800's and we were homesteading somewhere in the Midwest, this kid would rock. He belongs outdoors, sweaty and busy. But this is 2010, and now we only sweat in our off times.
At noon we break for lunch, and then it's on to schoolwork. Because it is a half day at school, the teacher doesn't have a lot to send home, but not to be deterred in my evil plan of torture, I cull through the workbooks I have in the closet and pull out worksheets that supplement what they are working on in class. I don't tell them they weren't part of his teacher's packet. To be even that more torturous, I insist he practice his penmanship which is atrocious. Overall, I find that he is a good sport. Unlike my oldest, this one actually listens to me, and I realize that--if I had to--I could probably homeschool him. And then I wonder if maybe that isn't what's best for him right now...except that he needs people like everyone else needs air...oh, why is parenting so complex? Why is it that we must search so hard for the answers?
In the end, I still don't know what the right answer is for my boy, so I ask his opinion. At some point during these two days at home I asked him again what he meant when he said that he didn't feel "ready." And I said that if, in fact, he didn't feel ready for first grade there were three options I could think of and that I would be okay with any of them (and that really was the truth.) "Son, if you don't feel ready, the first option would be to do kindergarten again. There wouldn't be anything wrong with that, and then you could review all of the stuff you need to know and feel more ready next year." Griffin didn't like that idea. "Okay...the second option is that I could teach you at home." Admittedly I held my breath on this one, but if that's what it came to, I could do it. Gratefully he shook his head on that one as well. "Alright then, the third option is that you go back to school and do what it is that you need to do to be successful in first grade, which means obeying the rules." He thought it over and agreed that he wanted to go back to school.
Once that decision was made, however, he also thought he should be able to go to soccer practice later that evening, and I was tempted. Sorely tempted. Because the real truth is, I don't enjoy taking things away from my kiddos. In fact, I would rather give them everything, including soccer practice. Ultimately, though, what I really want to give them is character, and that is something worth fighting for.
I am beginning to realize that there is no easy solution, no overnight success kit in raising kids. No. The answers come through a process. I wish I could report that Griffin went back to school the next day and was a brand new child, but that wouldn't be the truth. The truth is, he has had good days and bad, but he is trying. He is learning, growing, attempting, and sometimes failing, but more often succeeding, too.
The process of change is written slowly, in bursts and spurts two steps forward and one step back, I think. And it's not just the goin' in that counts, it's the quiet resolve to see it through. It's the willingness to patiently stick with it, even on the step back days. It's not getting discouraged, or at least not remaining there. It's celebrating the small victories. It's not just goin' in...it's stayin' in until the very end.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Goin' In (part 4)
I put him to work as soon as we got home. The only trouble is that it was also the first day that Rachel, my teenage "mommy's helper" reported for work. She is pretty and has long hair, so of course Griffin is smitten with her. And in 6.75 year old boy speak that means a lot of annoying and teasing. In 39 year old mom speak it sounds like this:
"Griffin, get busy...If you don't get moving, son, you are really going to get it...Griffin, what are you supposed to be doing?...Leave her alone and finish up...I have another job for you...I told you to stay out of here..."
Poor Rachel, I think. She probably wonders, I am sure, just what she had gotten herself into. So I say, "I'm not usually such an ogre mom. He just had a really bad day at school, and he's in quite a bit of trouble."
"Yeah, when I told him he'd better listen to you or he was going to get in trouble, he said it was okay; he couldn't get in any more trouble," she said, not knowing that single phrase entered my ear and shattered my brain.
Oh, really?
Every teacher knows that there are some children who must be compelled to humility, ala Annie Sullivan wrestling a willful Helen Keller all over the dining room until she would consent to eat using silverware. Mae Carden, a teacher and education innovator summed it up by saying, "Sometimes it is necessary to make a student cry." Looks as though Griffin and I, two willful souls, were preparing to wrestle, and someone was going to come away crying. I'm not saying it will be him, but I can assure you it won't be me.
Later, when it is just he and I in the kitchen, I say, "Rachel said you told her you didn't think you could get in any more trouble. Is that right?"
He simply shrugs.
"Griff, you need to know that I love you, but there are only two things I am required to do. I have to keep you alive and teach you about God; the rest is extra. Soccer? Extra. Wrestling camp? Extra. TV, computer time, sleepovers, play dates? Extra, extra, extra, extra. You don't think you can get more in trouble? If you want to keep going, you might just end up with a mattress on the floor, one blanket and two pairs of clothes, 'cause everything else is extra. You getting me here? 'Cause I love you, but if you want to keep misbehaving, you will see just how much trouble you can get in."
I know...I know. Griffin is not yet 7, but I also know that Griffin will one day be 14. And while I know that there are many worse things than minor misbehavior at school, those are exactly why this fight is particularly important. As my mother said, fighting the good fight right now is like drawing a fire line around them for their own good.
But it's enough work to make me sweat!
(to be continued...for the last time...)
"Griffin, get busy...If you don't get moving, son, you are really going to get it...Griffin, what are you supposed to be doing?...Leave her alone and finish up...I have another job for you...I told you to stay out of here..."
Poor Rachel, I think. She probably wonders, I am sure, just what she had gotten herself into. So I say, "I'm not usually such an ogre mom. He just had a really bad day at school, and he's in quite a bit of trouble."
"Yeah, when I told him he'd better listen to you or he was going to get in trouble, he said it was okay; he couldn't get in any more trouble," she said, not knowing that single phrase entered my ear and shattered my brain.
Oh, really?
Every teacher knows that there are some children who must be compelled to humility, ala Annie Sullivan wrestling a willful Helen Keller all over the dining room until she would consent to eat using silverware. Mae Carden, a teacher and education innovator summed it up by saying, "Sometimes it is necessary to make a student cry." Looks as though Griffin and I, two willful souls, were preparing to wrestle, and someone was going to come away crying. I'm not saying it will be him, but I can assure you it won't be me.
Later, when it is just he and I in the kitchen, I say, "Rachel said you told her you didn't think you could get in any more trouble. Is that right?"
He simply shrugs.
"Griff, you need to know that I love you, but there are only two things I am required to do. I have to keep you alive and teach you about God; the rest is extra. Soccer? Extra. Wrestling camp? Extra. TV, computer time, sleepovers, play dates? Extra, extra, extra, extra. You don't think you can get more in trouble? If you want to keep going, you might just end up with a mattress on the floor, one blanket and two pairs of clothes, 'cause everything else is extra. You getting me here? 'Cause I love you, but if you want to keep misbehaving, you will see just how much trouble you can get in."
I know...I know. Griffin is not yet 7, but I also know that Griffin will one day be 14. And while I know that there are many worse things than minor misbehavior at school, those are exactly why this fight is particularly important. As my mother said, fighting the good fight right now is like drawing a fire line around them for their own good.
But it's enough work to make me sweat!
(to be continued...for the last time...)
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Goin' In (part 3)
"Hi again," I say to the woman at the front desk. "I'm checking him out for the day."
"Ohhh," she responds empathetically. "Is he feeling sick?"
"No." I feel sheepish having to explain my crazy plan. I try to see if I can get through it quickly. I'd like to avoid a lot of questions. "He has had some behavior issues, so he's going to be home with me for the next couple of days."
Her eyes fly wide open. "Oh! Would you like to speak to someone? The Vice-Principal, perhaps?"
"No...no...we're fine..."
"Well, I'm sure he would like to know what is going on. I'd be happy to get him." This is said with such crazy energy that it seems she is trying to preempt an angry, raging parent.
"Griffin, could you go over and sit over there for a minute," I direct. When he is out of earshot I say, "Look, I'm not unhappy at all. Mrs. Quayle is doing an amazing job with him. I'm just trying to teach him a lesson about the behavior I expect at school."
With this her eyes narrow a bit and she looks at me quizzically. "Are you sure you don't want to speak to anyone? I'm sure the Vice-Principal would like to know what is going on."
And I wonder if she means with me or with Griffin? I'm leaning more toward me. She still hasn't handed me the check out sheet yet. "Well, I don't feel like I need to talk to him, but, I mean, it would be fine, I guess."
"Um, he's out of the office right now...but--"
"Oh, that's fine. Like I said--"
"But I could get the school psychologist. She would be happy to talk to you--"
"O...kay...sure, that's fine." It's obvious I'm not getting out of this school without discussing this to someone.
She walks me over to Mrs. Manzatti's* office where I fill her in on Griffin's past behavior and my crack-pot scheme.
We are sitting at her child-size table over which she leans and asks, "Griffin? What's going on? Do you not like your classroom? Are you having problems with Mrs. Quayle?" Mrs. Manzatti spoke in a high voice only reserved for talking with problem children.
"No," Griffin mumbles, his eyes downcast. "I like Mrs. Quayle."
"Well, it sounds like you are having a hard time, buddy. What's going on?"
In the silence that follows, I wonder if you had to develop a voice like that to become a school psychologist.
Finally Griffin speaks and begins to cry. "I just don't think I'm ready."
"Ohhh..." Mrs. Manzetti says nodding her head understandingly. Then turning to me, she says in her authoritative adult voice, "He may be feeling overwhelmed." Then, switching back to her child psychologist voice, she says to Griffin, "You know, Griffin, you are going to learn all kinds of things in first grade. You're going to learn how to read, your going to learn math...you'll learn all of that. It's okay if you don't know it right now." Then back to normal voice and to me, she says, "First grade is very different than kindergarten. There are a lot more expectations academically, a lot more seat work...And Mrs. Quayle--she is a very good teacher--but she does expect a lot of the students."
Now it was my turn to nod understandingly. I'm not sure we're all on the same page here, Griffin included. "The thing is," I say, "he's doing all of those things already. He can already read and he is trying to solve his sister's math problems, so...I'm not sure what he means when he says he not ready."
Then I say in my mommy voice--which isn't all that much different than my adult authoritative voice...well, maybe their exactly the same-- "Griffin. I don't know what you mean when you say you are not ready, son. You are doing really well with your school work. What don't you feel ready for?"
"I don't feel ready to follow the rules," he blurts, wiping his eyes.
Mrs. Manzetti is back to nodding understandingly; I, however, don't feel as if we've discovered any new territory. That much was clear to me three weeks ago, but feeling ready or not, what are the options here? The rules aren't going to change; I know that much, which is what I'm waiting for her to tell him when she says to me, "I just don't want him to get the idea that he can misbehave and then he gets to go home."
And I wonder how many stupid parents this woman has to deal with. "Oh, no. This isn't a 'get to go home' situation," I clarify. "No. This is a 'have to go home' situation. He is not going to have any fun at home." And this part is mostly for Griffin's benefit. "No. If he's going home, then he is going to not only do all of his schoolwork and then some, he is going to have to do all the work that needs to be done during the day as well. If he doesn't want to do his job here, then he can work at home. This is not going to be pleasant, and then we will see how good school looks."
"Oh. Oh, I see." I'm not sure Mrs. Manzetti is on board the crazy train, but she seems more interested in watching it pull out of the station.
(to be continued...seriously, how long is this story anyway?)
"Ohhh," she responds empathetically. "Is he feeling sick?"
"No." I feel sheepish having to explain my crazy plan. I try to see if I can get through it quickly. I'd like to avoid a lot of questions. "He has had some behavior issues, so he's going to be home with me for the next couple of days."
Her eyes fly wide open. "Oh! Would you like to speak to someone? The Vice-Principal, perhaps?"
"No...no...we're fine..."
"Well, I'm sure he would like to know what is going on. I'd be happy to get him." This is said with such crazy energy that it seems she is trying to preempt an angry, raging parent.
"Griffin, could you go over and sit over there for a minute," I direct. When he is out of earshot I say, "Look, I'm not unhappy at all. Mrs. Quayle is doing an amazing job with him. I'm just trying to teach him a lesson about the behavior I expect at school."
With this her eyes narrow a bit and she looks at me quizzically. "Are you sure you don't want to speak to anyone? I'm sure the Vice-Principal would like to know what is going on."
And I wonder if she means with me or with Griffin? I'm leaning more toward me. She still hasn't handed me the check out sheet yet. "Well, I don't feel like I need to talk to him, but, I mean, it would be fine, I guess."
"Um, he's out of the office right now...but--"
"Oh, that's fine. Like I said--"
"But I could get the school psychologist. She would be happy to talk to you--"
"O...kay...sure, that's fine." It's obvious I'm not getting out of this school without discussing this to someone.
She walks me over to Mrs. Manzatti's* office where I fill her in on Griffin's past behavior and my crack-pot scheme.
We are sitting at her child-size table over which she leans and asks, "Griffin? What's going on? Do you not like your classroom? Are you having problems with Mrs. Quayle?" Mrs. Manzatti spoke in a high voice only reserved for talking with problem children.
"No," Griffin mumbles, his eyes downcast. "I like Mrs. Quayle."
"Well, it sounds like you are having a hard time, buddy. What's going on?"
In the silence that follows, I wonder if you had to develop a voice like that to become a school psychologist.
Finally Griffin speaks and begins to cry. "I just don't think I'm ready."
"Ohhh..." Mrs. Manzetti says nodding her head understandingly. Then turning to me, she says in her authoritative adult voice, "He may be feeling overwhelmed." Then, switching back to her child psychologist voice, she says to Griffin, "You know, Griffin, you are going to learn all kinds of things in first grade. You're going to learn how to read, your going to learn math...you'll learn all of that. It's okay if you don't know it right now." Then back to normal voice and to me, she says, "First grade is very different than kindergarten. There are a lot more expectations academically, a lot more seat work...And Mrs. Quayle--she is a very good teacher--but she does expect a lot of the students."
Now it was my turn to nod understandingly. I'm not sure we're all on the same page here, Griffin included. "The thing is," I say, "he's doing all of those things already. He can already read and he is trying to solve his sister's math problems, so...I'm not sure what he means when he says he not ready."
Then I say in my mommy voice--which isn't all that much different than my adult authoritative voice...well, maybe their exactly the same-- "Griffin. I don't know what you mean when you say you are not ready, son. You are doing really well with your school work. What don't you feel ready for?"
"I don't feel ready to follow the rules," he blurts, wiping his eyes.
Mrs. Manzetti is back to nodding understandingly; I, however, don't feel as if we've discovered any new territory. That much was clear to me three weeks ago, but feeling ready or not, what are the options here? The rules aren't going to change; I know that much, which is what I'm waiting for her to tell him when she says to me, "I just don't want him to get the idea that he can misbehave and then he gets to go home."
And I wonder how many stupid parents this woman has to deal with. "Oh, no. This isn't a 'get to go home' situation," I clarify. "No. This is a 'have to go home' situation. He is not going to have any fun at home." And this part is mostly for Griffin's benefit. "No. If he's going home, then he is going to not only do all of his schoolwork and then some, he is going to have to do all the work that needs to be done during the day as well. If he doesn't want to do his job here, then he can work at home. This is not going to be pleasant, and then we will see how good school looks."
"Oh. Oh, I see." I'm not sure Mrs. Manzetti is on board the crazy train, but she seems more interested in watching it pull out of the station.
(to be continued...seriously, how long is this story anyway?)
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Goin' In (part 2)
author's note: Still here. Still without a computer. Hopefully I'll be back, fully on-line, early in the week. Don't give up on me.
"Hi." I greet the woman at the front desk hesitantly. "I'm Griffin's mom." She gives no sign of recognition at his name; I take that as a good sign. "His teacher called, and apparently he has had some behavior issues today?" Still nothing. Phew. "I called back but couldn't get through, so I thought I had better come down."
"Who's his teacher?"
"Mrs. Quayle."
"Okay..." she says, searching her schedule list. "She is at lunch. Would you like me to call her?"
Poor Mrs. Quayle can't even get a lunch break. "Yes. I suppose I had better visit with her."
When I see her coming down the hall, I rise, sheepishly shrugging my shoulders and rolling my eyes. She laughs, and this puts me at ease a little. "I'm so sorry to interrupt your lunch!"
"Oh, that's no problem. He's had a tough morning." Rightly said, it should have been, I have had a tough morning because of him, but Mrs. Quayle is too nice to speak the actual truth. "Does Griffin know a boy named Eli Jones?" (Some names have been changed to protect the innocent.)
"Ummm..." I am racking my brain for that name.
"Because that is the little boy he bit at recess. At first he said he didn't bite him, although three other boys said he did. When I asked him why three other boys would say that he bit Eli, Griffin said, 'I don't know, but I didn't.' Finally, though, he gave the reason that he had gone over to Eli's house and Eli had pushed him off a shelf and he had gotten hurt."
What? I don't even know a...wait a second..."Last Christmas I went over to Eli's mother's house so my mom could buy a necklace that she had made...We were there for like 15 minutes, but I think Griffin did get hurt while they were playing...Nine months ago? I can't believe Griffin would hold a grudge for nine months, but that is the only time he has been to Eli's house..."
"Well, whatever the circumstances, Griffin felt that gave him reason to bite him. The other issue was that during carpet time..."
She continues to tell me about another instance of Griffin neither listening or obeying. That is old hat around here, but the biting? That one blows my mind. I am at a loss, which is what I tell her. "Mrs. Quayle, I really don't know what to do with this kid right now." Even as I say it I'm pretty sure that is not an impressive thing to say, but my mind is whirling, trying to come up with some sort of meaningful punishment. Something that will make a difference. But what is it? What?
"I just think he needs to realize that coming to school is a privilege," I continue. "...Maybe I need to take him out of school for a couple of days...make him want to come back...maybe..."My mind is still spinning, but there might be something here...possibly. "I don't know. I just think he needs something that's going to rock his world a little bit." I'm hoping here that she will chime in with an opinion; clearly I am a mother grasping at straws. She doesn't.
So I continue, "What do you think?"
"Well..." she hesitates, and I think maybe I'm crazy. "In my position I can't tell you to take your child out of school--"
"--No, of course not." It's official. I'm crazy.
"--but if you think it will help, it may be worth a try. Why not?"
And that's where I fell in love with Mrs. Quayle a little bit. Right there. Because I don't know what will help. I really don't, but I'm willing to try anything. And something in my mother's heart tells me this kid needs a wake up call, something big, something bold, and maybe a little crazy, and if she can get behind crazy, then she's on my team.
"Do you want to get him now? They are just coming in from recess."
"Sure. Yeah." I try to sound more confident than I feel. "If you could send home his work from the rest of today and for tomorrow, I will see that he gets it done. I just want to make sure I'm not making things harder for you..." And then I realize Griffin will be out of her class for a day and a half. I laugh, "Actually things will probably be a little easier, huh?"
She laughs with me, but doesn't totally disagree. I respect that.
When Griffin sees me standing next to his teacher as he comes in from recess, his face lights up. He smiles and waves excitedly. Inside I shake my head at his complete oblivion. Outside I narrow my eyes and beckon him with my pointer finger. His smile quickly fades and he walks over reluctantly.
"I am not happy about being here right now," I seethe quietly. "Do you know why I am here?"
"Because I got in trouble."
"That's right. And now you have to come home with me. Let's go get your things."
While the rest of the class finishes their bathroom break, Mrs. Quayle accompanies us to her room. While she gathers his papers, I lecture. "Now, you look at Mrs. Quayle. She is your teacher. She is not your babysitter, or your mother. She is your teacher, and she should not have to spend all of her time dealing with your misbehaviour when she has 25 other students in the room to look after. You need to say you are sorry for not listening and obeying."
"Sorry," he mumbles humbly.
Griffin," I continue, "school is a privilege. There are lots of kids that do not get to go to school. You should feel very lucky to be here, but if you can not behave, then you can not be here. Now, Mrs. Quayle loves you, and she wants you to be able to come back, but if I can not trust you to behave correctly when you are out of my sight, then I will not allow you to come back to school. You will just have to stay at home and do all your work with me where I can keep my eyes on you. We are going to see how it goes the next couple of days, and you are going to have to prove to me that you want to come back. Do you understand?"
He nodded yes.
"Here are your papers from today, and the rest of the work we will be doing this afternoon," Mrs. Quayle says, and then in a move that is akin to jumping up behind me and spurring the crazy horse on, she takes his little face in her hands, looks in his eyes, and with the severest gravity says, "I hope you can come back, Griffin."
Me? More in love with Mrs. Quayle than ever! She's on board and, though we don't know exactly where we're going, we're riding this train all the way to the station--or at least the the front office, 'cause that's where I run into a little trouble.
(to be continued...)
"Hi." I greet the woman at the front desk hesitantly. "I'm Griffin's mom." She gives no sign of recognition at his name; I take that as a good sign. "His teacher called, and apparently he has had some behavior issues today?" Still nothing. Phew. "I called back but couldn't get through, so I thought I had better come down."
"Who's his teacher?"
"Mrs. Quayle."
"Okay..." she says, searching her schedule list. "She is at lunch. Would you like me to call her?"
Poor Mrs. Quayle can't even get a lunch break. "Yes. I suppose I had better visit with her."
When I see her coming down the hall, I rise, sheepishly shrugging my shoulders and rolling my eyes. She laughs, and this puts me at ease a little. "I'm so sorry to interrupt your lunch!"
"Oh, that's no problem. He's had a tough morning." Rightly said, it should have been, I have had a tough morning because of him, but Mrs. Quayle is too nice to speak the actual truth. "Does Griffin know a boy named Eli Jones?" (Some names have been changed to protect the innocent.)
"Ummm..." I am racking my brain for that name.
"Because that is the little boy he bit at recess. At first he said he didn't bite him, although three other boys said he did. When I asked him why three other boys would say that he bit Eli, Griffin said, 'I don't know, but I didn't.' Finally, though, he gave the reason that he had gone over to Eli's house and Eli had pushed him off a shelf and he had gotten hurt."
What? I don't even know a...wait a second..."Last Christmas I went over to Eli's mother's house so my mom could buy a necklace that she had made...We were there for like 15 minutes, but I think Griffin did get hurt while they were playing...Nine months ago? I can't believe Griffin would hold a grudge for nine months, but that is the only time he has been to Eli's house..."
"Well, whatever the circumstances, Griffin felt that gave him reason to bite him. The other issue was that during carpet time..."
She continues to tell me about another instance of Griffin neither listening or obeying. That is old hat around here, but the biting? That one blows my mind. I am at a loss, which is what I tell her. "Mrs. Quayle, I really don't know what to do with this kid right now." Even as I say it I'm pretty sure that is not an impressive thing to say, but my mind is whirling, trying to come up with some sort of meaningful punishment. Something that will make a difference. But what is it? What?
"I just think he needs to realize that coming to school is a privilege," I continue. "...Maybe I need to take him out of school for a couple of days...make him want to come back...maybe..."My mind is still spinning, but there might be something here...possibly. "I don't know. I just think he needs something that's going to rock his world a little bit." I'm hoping here that she will chime in with an opinion; clearly I am a mother grasping at straws. She doesn't.
So I continue, "What do you think?"
"Well..." she hesitates, and I think maybe I'm crazy. "In my position I can't tell you to take your child out of school--"
"--No, of course not." It's official. I'm crazy.
"--but if you think it will help, it may be worth a try. Why not?"
And that's where I fell in love with Mrs. Quayle a little bit. Right there. Because I don't know what will help. I really don't, but I'm willing to try anything. And something in my mother's heart tells me this kid needs a wake up call, something big, something bold, and maybe a little crazy, and if she can get behind crazy, then she's on my team.
"Do you want to get him now? They are just coming in from recess."
"Sure. Yeah." I try to sound more confident than I feel. "If you could send home his work from the rest of today and for tomorrow, I will see that he gets it done. I just want to make sure I'm not making things harder for you..." And then I realize Griffin will be out of her class for a day and a half. I laugh, "Actually things will probably be a little easier, huh?"
She laughs with me, but doesn't totally disagree. I respect that.
When Griffin sees me standing next to his teacher as he comes in from recess, his face lights up. He smiles and waves excitedly. Inside I shake my head at his complete oblivion. Outside I narrow my eyes and beckon him with my pointer finger. His smile quickly fades and he walks over reluctantly.
"I am not happy about being here right now," I seethe quietly. "Do you know why I am here?"
"Because I got in trouble."
"That's right. And now you have to come home with me. Let's go get your things."
While the rest of the class finishes their bathroom break, Mrs. Quayle accompanies us to her room. While she gathers his papers, I lecture. "Now, you look at Mrs. Quayle. She is your teacher. She is not your babysitter, or your mother. She is your teacher, and she should not have to spend all of her time dealing with your misbehaviour when she has 25 other students in the room to look after. You need to say you are sorry for not listening and obeying."
"Sorry," he mumbles humbly.
Griffin," I continue, "school is a privilege. There are lots of kids that do not get to go to school. You should feel very lucky to be here, but if you can not behave, then you can not be here. Now, Mrs. Quayle loves you, and she wants you to be able to come back, but if I can not trust you to behave correctly when you are out of my sight, then I will not allow you to come back to school. You will just have to stay at home and do all your work with me where I can keep my eyes on you. We are going to see how it goes the next couple of days, and you are going to have to prove to me that you want to come back. Do you understand?"
He nodded yes.
"Here are your papers from today, and the rest of the work we will be doing this afternoon," Mrs. Quayle says, and then in a move that is akin to jumping up behind me and spurring the crazy horse on, she takes his little face in her hands, looks in his eyes, and with the severest gravity says, "I hope you can come back, Griffin."
Me? More in love with Mrs. Quayle than ever! She's on board and, though we don't know exactly where we're going, we're riding this train all the way to the station--or at least the the front office, 'cause that's where I run into a little trouble.
(to be continued...)
Friday, September 3, 2010
Goin' In (part 1)
"Hello. Mrs. Wicke? This is Mrs. Quayle, Griffin's teacher? I just wanted to call to let you know that I had to take away both of his hand sanitizers because they were quite distracting to him..."
It is only the second day of school, and already I'm getting a call from his first grade teacher. I'd focus more on the embarrassment of that situation if I could think anything other than, "Hand sanitizers? Both? What?"
"I tried to tell him that he was only to use them when he sneezed, or blew his nose, or...but he kept playing with it under his desk, so I took the one away, and then the next time I looked he had another..."
I still can't get past "hand sanitizers." I'm not a hand sanitizer kind of mom, as my friends will tell you. They are the germaphobes; I'm the mom who considers dirt a form of inoculation. Besides, trying to keep Griffin clean is like trying to hold back the tide. And now I have a teacher who can only surmise that I am the most germ-conscious mother in the room, for not only do I send one hand sanitizer but a back up--just in case!
"Anyway, I just wanted to let you know in case Griffin came home and said that I..."
"Mrs. Quayle, I'm so sorry. I don't know where he got those in the first place. I certainly didn't pack them for him. And secondly, please feel free to take anything of his away from him at any time and keep it as long as you want." In my estimation, Griffin's teacher needs free range...obviously.
The next time we talk, she informs me that Griffin is not finishing his work because he isn't staying on task, and I tell her that she is preaching to the choir; well, not in those words exactly. "You know, Mrs. Quayle, we are dealing with these same issues at home. He's not a bad kid, he just seems to be in a bad pocket right now."
"Oh, no," she quickly agrees, winning my heart. "He's not mean or malicious about anything. He just seems impulsive and highly social."
Impulsive and highly social. It's a good description of my boy. "Well, I appreciate that you can see the goodness in him, and I just want you know that you have our total support here at home. We are working really hard on this end, too, and we're willing to do whatever you need."
I initiate the third conversation with a request that she do a daily behavior report for Griffin. As a firm believer in bribery, I have a plan: With good behavior at school he could earn points toward getting a lizard. Crazy pets in exchange for compliance? Any day of the week. Especially when she further reports that she has a small collection of toys that he has smuggled into school. I tell you, if it's not one thing it's another with this kid.
But the fourth conversation--oh, the fourth conversation!--is the worst. I come home at noon to discover a message on my machine. "Hi, Mrs. Wicke; this is Mrs. Quayle again. We've had a couple of issues with Griffin today. Uh, he bit a child at recess. He denied it, but three other children said that he did. I did look at the other child, and there were bite marks. It didn't seem like a really hard bite, but it did draw blood. Then when we were doing calendar time, I noticed he was playing with a pencil and when I asked him to please put it away he--" Beeeeeep.
The machine cuts her off, and I stand there in stunned silence. Biting? He has never bitten another kid in his life. Even his sister, and, out of anyone, he should have bitten her a couple of times. This is a whole new low. And what was the rest of the story? What horror could he inflict with a pencil? Take the whole classroom hostage? And what was I supposed to do? Go get him? Are they holding the little vampire in the office? What?
I try to call the school back only to get a busy signal. I wait. I call again. Still busy. Never one to exhibit much patience, I determine that I'm going to have to just go down there. I call a friend who generously comes over to sit with baby while I head out the door. As I drive the short distance to the school, I realize that I don't know what to expect, nor do I know what I'm going to do.
All I know is that I have to do something. I might be "the" mom of "that" child right now, but I am THE MOM. I stand between him and the cliff he seems determined to throw himself off of. But what's my next move?
That I don't know. So I phone a friend: I pray asking that I will know what to say or do to get through to this child. Then I take a deep breath and suit up.
'Cause I'm going in.
(to be continued...)
p.s. While I finished writing this this morning my baby covered himself and the kitchen table in maple syrup.
It is only the second day of school, and already I'm getting a call from his first grade teacher. I'd focus more on the embarrassment of that situation if I could think anything other than, "Hand sanitizers? Both? What?"
"I tried to tell him that he was only to use them when he sneezed, or blew his nose, or...but he kept playing with it under his desk, so I took the one away, and then the next time I looked he had another..."
I still can't get past "hand sanitizers." I'm not a hand sanitizer kind of mom, as my friends will tell you. They are the germaphobes; I'm the mom who considers dirt a form of inoculation. Besides, trying to keep Griffin clean is like trying to hold back the tide. And now I have a teacher who can only surmise that I am the most germ-conscious mother in the room, for not only do I send one hand sanitizer but a back up--just in case!
"Anyway, I just wanted to let you know in case Griffin came home and said that I..."
"Mrs. Quayle, I'm so sorry. I don't know where he got those in the first place. I certainly didn't pack them for him. And secondly, please feel free to take anything of his away from him at any time and keep it as long as you want." In my estimation, Griffin's teacher needs free range...obviously.
The next time we talk, she informs me that Griffin is not finishing his work because he isn't staying on task, and I tell her that she is preaching to the choir; well, not in those words exactly. "You know, Mrs. Quayle, we are dealing with these same issues at home. He's not a bad kid, he just seems to be in a bad pocket right now."
"Oh, no," she quickly agrees, winning my heart. "He's not mean or malicious about anything. He just seems impulsive and highly social."
Impulsive and highly social. It's a good description of my boy. "Well, I appreciate that you can see the goodness in him, and I just want you know that you have our total support here at home. We are working really hard on this end, too, and we're willing to do whatever you need."
I initiate the third conversation with a request that she do a daily behavior report for Griffin. As a firm believer in bribery, I have a plan: With good behavior at school he could earn points toward getting a lizard. Crazy pets in exchange for compliance? Any day of the week. Especially when she further reports that she has a small collection of toys that he has smuggled into school. I tell you, if it's not one thing it's another with this kid.
But the fourth conversation--oh, the fourth conversation!--is the worst. I come home at noon to discover a message on my machine. "Hi, Mrs. Wicke; this is Mrs. Quayle again. We've had a couple of issues with Griffin today. Uh, he bit a child at recess. He denied it, but three other children said that he did. I did look at the other child, and there were bite marks. It didn't seem like a really hard bite, but it did draw blood. Then when we were doing calendar time, I noticed he was playing with a pencil and when I asked him to please put it away he--" Beeeeeep.
The machine cuts her off, and I stand there in stunned silence. Biting? He has never bitten another kid in his life. Even his sister, and, out of anyone, he should have bitten her a couple of times. This is a whole new low. And what was the rest of the story? What horror could he inflict with a pencil? Take the whole classroom hostage? And what was I supposed to do? Go get him? Are they holding the little vampire in the office? What?
I try to call the school back only to get a busy signal. I wait. I call again. Still busy. Never one to exhibit much patience, I determine that I'm going to have to just go down there. I call a friend who generously comes over to sit with baby while I head out the door. As I drive the short distance to the school, I realize that I don't know what to expect, nor do I know what I'm going to do.
All I know is that I have to do something. I might be "the" mom of "that" child right now, but I am THE MOM. I stand between him and the cliff he seems determined to throw himself off of. But what's my next move?
That I don't know. So I phone a friend: I pray asking that I will know what to say or do to get through to this child. Then I take a deep breath and suit up.
'Cause I'm going in.
(to be continued...)
p.s. While I finished writing this this morning my baby covered himself and the kitchen table in maple syrup.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Here We Go Again
School here in Mesa started August 11th. On August 13th I got a call from Griffin's teacher. For those of you who are math challenged like me, I'll interpret: GRIFFIN'S TEACHER HAD TO CALL ME ON THE SECOND DAY OF SCHOOL! Oh, boy. I'm that mother again?
It appears so. The last three weeks have been a bumpy ride, so strap in, because if I get the chance today I'm gonna' tell you all about it.
It appears so. The last three weeks have been a bumpy ride, so strap in, because if I get the chance today I'm gonna' tell you all about it.
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Forgetting Regrets
Something my kids said the other day was funny. So funny that I thought, "I have to write that down on the blog." But I didn't. Because while they were being funny, they were also being a handful, and I was busy wiping them or wiping something they spilled. Or picking something off of them or picking something they dropped. Or cleaning them or cleaning up after them. You get the picture.
And now I can't remember what they said. As often as I try to scour that spot in my brain, scratching again and again at the place where that moment once sat, I can not recall it. I can only remember that I found it incredibly funny. And that makes me sad, that empty spot in my brain. (And, by the way, nothing looks any cleaner around here than it did before. That makes me sad, too, but in a different way.)
Oooh, I hope in heaven I get a DVD of all the highlights, along with a remote control so I can rewind and watch as many times as I want. Over and over until I'm filled. Until all those empty spots of great moments that I meant to remember, or forgot to take notice of in the first place, are fully recollected, fully appreciated, fully present.
Until then, I'll just keep blogging.
Favorite quote of the day:
Griffin (in the back seat tying his new school shoes--his first pair of tie-on's ever.) Ugh! I can't do it. I only got half of the bunny ear in the--hmph! (Now with a bit of a whine in his voice.) I only have two arms, and I need three 'cause I have to make two bunny ears and then I can't get the...rest...done!
Me: I've felt like that a lot of times myself.
p.s. School starts on Wednesday. I'll be back to regular posting on Thursday. That is if anyone is still there. "Hello? Is this thing on?"
And now I can't remember what they said. As often as I try to scour that spot in my brain, scratching again and again at the place where that moment once sat, I can not recall it. I can only remember that I found it incredibly funny. And that makes me sad, that empty spot in my brain. (And, by the way, nothing looks any cleaner around here than it did before. That makes me sad, too, but in a different way.)
Oooh, I hope in heaven I get a DVD of all the highlights, along with a remote control so I can rewind and watch as many times as I want. Over and over until I'm filled. Until all those empty spots of great moments that I meant to remember, or forgot to take notice of in the first place, are fully recollected, fully appreciated, fully present.
Until then, I'll just keep blogging.
Favorite quote of the day:
Griffin (in the back seat tying his new school shoes--his first pair of tie-on's ever.) Ugh! I can't do it. I only got half of the bunny ear in the--hmph! (Now with a bit of a whine in his voice.) I only have two arms, and I need three 'cause I have to make two bunny ears and then I can't get the...rest...done!
Me: I've felt like that a lot of times myself.
p.s. School starts on Wednesday. I'll be back to regular posting on Thursday. That is if anyone is still there. "Hello? Is this thing on?"
Monday, July 26, 2010
Discoveries in San Diego
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| at Coronado |
some things I learned/relearned about this kid:
he is a great traveler
he is curious
he will watch the same movie 13 times in a row
asking him not to spill is like asking the wind not to blow
he wants to know just about everything
he wants to tell anyone what he knows
he may be a little nervous at first, but once he gets the hang of it he's pretty fearless
he has no concept of time
he has no concept of money
he'll get grouchy before he realizes he's hungry
he loves crepes
he has a big heart
he loves me
and I really, really love him.
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| Feeding the bat rays at Sea World. We spent two hours with them. Not kidding. |
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| More bat rays. |
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| We're still there and still loving it! |
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| Watching the polar bears. |
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| In front of the USS Midway. |
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| He loved the self-guided tour of the aircraft carrier. |
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| More careful listening. |
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| He was fascinated with the airplanes. Grandpa Wicke (Col. USAF Ret.) may have a pilot on his hands! |
Monday, June 28, 2010
A Listening Exercise
I heard him before my eyes opened, the heavy patter of feet down the hall. "Maybe if I lie really still and keep my eyes closed he'll let me 'sleep' a few minutes longer," I thought. Experience tells me that if Griffin sees my eyes open in the morning, he considers me fair game, and so I lay, eyes closed and ears pricked. I listened for clues of other awakening life. There were no sounds from the baby's room, and from the absence of bickering I concluded that Logan, too, had yet to stir. I peeked out from one eye: Griffin was no where in sight. Possibly he had already gone downstairs to munch on bread and entertain himself in the playroom. Again I listened intently. No sounds of distress. I rolled over to catch just a few more minutes. He was soon to get bored I was sure.
Two minutes later I heard the sounds of the TV clicking on. What was still a mystery, however, was what program he was watching. The only sound I could make out was the deep voice of a grown woman. The animal planet, perchance? That was the only thing I could come up with. No...something didn't seem to fit. After listening a few moment more there was definitely a lack of interest-pricking background music. What was he watching?
Unable to be sure, I slowly I made my way down the stairs rubbing sleep out of my eyes. As I turned the corner I rubbed my eyes again, this time out of sheer consternation. It wasn't Nickelodian, or the Disney Channel, or Animal Planet. No. It was a yoga class on BYU TV.
"What are you watching?" I queried.
"Stretching," he replied his head dropped between his knees, his fingers touching his toes.
"...and hold...breathing in and out..."the voice from the TV calmly suggested.
I shook my head, giggled, and joined him for a downward dog.
Two minutes later I heard the sounds of the TV clicking on. What was still a mystery, however, was what program he was watching. The only sound I could make out was the deep voice of a grown woman. The animal planet, perchance? That was the only thing I could come up with. No...something didn't seem to fit. After listening a few moment more there was definitely a lack of interest-pricking background music. What was he watching?
Unable to be sure, I slowly I made my way down the stairs rubbing sleep out of my eyes. As I turned the corner I rubbed my eyes again, this time out of sheer consternation. It wasn't Nickelodian, or the Disney Channel, or Animal Planet. No. It was a yoga class on BYU TV.
"What are you watching?" I queried.
"Stretching," he replied his head dropped between his knees, his fingers touching his toes.
"...and hold...breathing in and out..."the voice from the TV calmly suggested.
I shook my head, giggled, and joined him for a downward dog.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Our Apologies, Mrs. Olson
The first thing I noticed when Griffin got in the car on the warm spring day was the sweat beads across his freckled nose. The second was his impish smile. "Hi, buddy! How was your day?"
His smiled dimmed a bit. "Not good."
As this is his go-to response, I chided him, "What?! What do you mean you didn't have a good day?"
"I got a yellow card," he admitted while clearly trying to hide the trace of a grin.
"No you didn't!" I cried, sure he was joking. His current favorite activity is pulling my leg any chance he gets.
"I did!" he said, his eyes twinkling.
"Nu-uh."
"Uh-huh."
"Are you kidding me?" I was truly becoming confused.
"No," he laughed.
"You better not have gotten a yellow card," I was now officially nervous.
"I did. Look," he said opening his backpack.
I glanced at his teacher's note, which said: "Yellow Card:hit poked Mrs. Olson's bottom."
"What?! You poked your teacher's aide's bottom?!"
"No! I didn't poke it! I just touched it--like this!" he said, his pointer finger outstretched.
"Griffin!" Now it was my chance to stifle a grin. I do not approve of bum-touching, but this boy is always a surprise.
"I know. Are you mad?
"Well, son, I'm not mad. I'm just disappointed. I've taught you better than that."
"You never taught me that!" he argued.
"Griffin." I had my mommy voice on now for sure. "Is a bottom a private part of someone's body?"
"Yes."
"And do we ever touch any private parts of anybody's body?"
"No..."
"Okay, then. I have taught you that, and you knew it was wrong even when you were doing it!" I really should have been a lawyer.
"I know."
"Then what were you thinking, son?"
"Well...it was right there--" he held his hand in front of his face, "--and Jade told me that she would invite me to her party if I touched it."
...Mmm hmm. That had better be some party.
His smiled dimmed a bit. "Not good."
As this is his go-to response, I chided him, "What?! What do you mean you didn't have a good day?"
"I got a yellow card," he admitted while clearly trying to hide the trace of a grin.
"No you didn't!" I cried, sure he was joking. His current favorite activity is pulling my leg any chance he gets.
"I did!" he said, his eyes twinkling.
"Nu-uh."
"Uh-huh."
"Are you kidding me?" I was truly becoming confused.
"No," he laughed.
"You better not have gotten a yellow card," I was now officially nervous.
"I did. Look," he said opening his backpack.
I glanced at his teacher's note, which said: "Yellow Card:
"What?! You poked your teacher's aide's bottom?!"
"No! I didn't poke it! I just touched it--like this!" he said, his pointer finger outstretched.
"Griffin!" Now it was my chance to stifle a grin. I do not approve of bum-touching, but this boy is always a surprise.
"I know. Are you mad?
"Well, son, I'm not mad. I'm just disappointed. I've taught you better than that."
"You never taught me that!" he argued.
"Griffin." I had my mommy voice on now for sure. "Is a bottom a private part of someone's body?"
"Yes."
"And do we ever touch any private parts of anybody's body?"
"No..."
"Okay, then. I have taught you that, and you knew it was wrong even when you were doing it!" I really should have been a lawyer.
"I know."
"Then what were you thinking, son?"
"Well...it was right there--" he held his hand in front of his face, "--and Jade told me that she would invite me to her party if I touched it."
...Mmm hmm. That had better be some party.
Friday, May 14, 2010
An Open Letter to my Son Regarding Weeds
Dear Griffin,
We had an interesting experience the other day. It first began while you were in school and I was grocery shopping. As I am prone to do while waiting in line, I flipped through magazines. One made me particularly sad. There has been an ongoing saga regarding a famous actress who, after achieving the pinnacle of her professional career, found out that her husband had engaged in multiple extra marital affairs. Now that is sad. But worse, on this day, the magazines announced that just 3 1/2 months earlier they had begun the adoption of a sweet baby boy. And now she is left, not only to pick up the pieces of a broken heart, but a broken family as well. It sort of turned my stomach. I can not understand nor pity that man. He was so very wrong. His incredibly poor behavior sat in a small part of my brain the rest of the day.
You, of course, know nothing of these grown up affairs. You are in kindergarten studying ladybugs, which is just as it should be, and when you came home, I was outside pulling weeds. It wasn't long before I saw you round the corner with my adult size work gloves on your hands. "I want to help you, Mom," you so generously offered.
As you are prone to do, you attacked the job with gusto, talking the entire time. "Woah! That was a big one. Yes! Awesome, mom. Look at those roots!" You were full of constant observations, and some of them were pretty signficant.
You told me that sometimes weeds tried to trick you by looking like plants.
You told me that weeds were easier to pull when they were small. The bigger we let them grow the harder it was to get them out.
You told me that it was easier to pull weeds when the ground was soft.
And while you talked I thought. I thought about weeds, both in the garden and in our lives. We all have them, and when we let them get really, really big, they can destroy everything good around us. And I thought about you, and the kind of man, the kind of husband, the kind of father I hope you grow up to be.
I hope in your life you will recognize weeds for what they are. I hope you get rid of them early, before they have the power to destroy you and those you love. I hope your heart will always be soft so that you will listen to the Master Gardener, whose design is one of beauty, light, and joy.
Over dinner that night we talked about some of these things, but you are six and thinking of ladybugs, and that is just as it should be. But one day, you will be a grown up dealing with grown up affairs. For that day I'm recording this little experience, so you will remember, so that you will know that your mother has high hopes for you, my son. And they don't have anything to do with fame or fortune or popularity or power. I hope that you grow to be a man, a good man, a good husband, and a good father.
Tend to your garden, my boy.
Your Loving Mother
We had an interesting experience the other day. It first began while you were in school and I was grocery shopping. As I am prone to do while waiting in line, I flipped through magazines. One made me particularly sad. There has been an ongoing saga regarding a famous actress who, after achieving the pinnacle of her professional career, found out that her husband had engaged in multiple extra marital affairs. Now that is sad. But worse, on this day, the magazines announced that just 3 1/2 months earlier they had begun the adoption of a sweet baby boy. And now she is left, not only to pick up the pieces of a broken heart, but a broken family as well. It sort of turned my stomach. I can not understand nor pity that man. He was so very wrong. His incredibly poor behavior sat in a small part of my brain the rest of the day.
You, of course, know nothing of these grown up affairs. You are in kindergarten studying ladybugs, which is just as it should be, and when you came home, I was outside pulling weeds. It wasn't long before I saw you round the corner with my adult size work gloves on your hands. "I want to help you, Mom," you so generously offered.
As you are prone to do, you attacked the job with gusto, talking the entire time. "Woah! That was a big one. Yes! Awesome, mom. Look at those roots!" You were full of constant observations, and some of them were pretty signficant.
You told me that sometimes weeds tried to trick you by looking like plants.
You told me that weeds were easier to pull when they were small. The bigger we let them grow the harder it was to get them out.
You told me that it was easier to pull weeds when the ground was soft.
And while you talked I thought. I thought about weeds, both in the garden and in our lives. We all have them, and when we let them get really, really big, they can destroy everything good around us. And I thought about you, and the kind of man, the kind of husband, the kind of father I hope you grow up to be.
I hope in your life you will recognize weeds for what they are. I hope you get rid of them early, before they have the power to destroy you and those you love. I hope your heart will always be soft so that you will listen to the Master Gardener, whose design is one of beauty, light, and joy.
Over dinner that night we talked about some of these things, but you are six and thinking of ladybugs, and that is just as it should be. But one day, you will be a grown up dealing with grown up affairs. For that day I'm recording this little experience, so you will remember, so that you will know that your mother has high hopes for you, my son. And they don't have anything to do with fame or fortune or popularity or power. I hope that you grow to be a man, a good man, a good husband, and a good father.
Tend to your garden, my boy.
Your Loving Mother
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Ugh for Two Different Reasons
Monday Morning:
Me: Griffin! Go get dressed. You are going to be late.
Griffin: (dawdling)
Me: Griffin. Go get dressed!
Griffin: (distracted by something shiny)
Me: Griffin! I swear, if I have to tell you one more time! Go--get--dressed!
Griffin: (disappears into his room)
(Much time passes.)
Me: Griffin?
(silence)
Me: Griffin!
(silence)
Me: (yelling downstairs) Is Griffin down there?
Griffin: (Walks out of his bedroom--completely naked.) Sorry I didn't answer you.
Me: Griffin! What have you been doing?
Griffin: Getting dressed.
Me: (Walking him back into his bedroom.) No, you haven't. I've told you a million times to get dressed and you're still naked. What is taking so long?!
Griffin: (pointing with wide eyes.) This book.
Monday Night:
Logan: Mom? Did you ever have a crush on someone when you were my age?
Me: Oh, sure.
Logan: Who?
Me: Rod Winland.
Logan: Was he a nice boy?
Me: Of course. He was my very good friend. We even shared the same birthday.
Logan: Why didn't you marry him?
Me: Well, he moved away and went to a different school, and things were different when we got older, you know.
Logan: Oh...well, if I had a crush on a boy would you help me know how to get him to like me?
Me: (gulp)
Me: Griffin! Go get dressed. You are going to be late.
Griffin: (dawdling)
Me: Griffin. Go get dressed!
Griffin: (distracted by something shiny)
Me: Griffin! I swear, if I have to tell you one more time! Go--get--dressed!
Griffin: (disappears into his room)
(Much time passes.)
Me: Griffin?
(silence)
Me: Griffin!
(silence)
Me: (yelling downstairs) Is Griffin down there?
Griffin: (Walks out of his bedroom--completely naked.) Sorry I didn't answer you.
Me: Griffin! What have you been doing?
Griffin: Getting dressed.
Me: (Walking him back into his bedroom.) No, you haven't. I've told you a million times to get dressed and you're still naked. What is taking so long?!
Griffin: (pointing with wide eyes.) This book.
Monday Night:
Logan: Mom? Did you ever have a crush on someone when you were my age?
Me: Oh, sure.
Logan: Who?
Me: Rod Winland.
Logan: Was he a nice boy?
Me: Of course. He was my very good friend. We even shared the same birthday.
Logan: Why didn't you marry him?
Me: Well, he moved away and went to a different school, and things were different when we got older, you know.
Logan: Oh...well, if I had a crush on a boy would you help me know how to get him to like me?
Me: (gulp)
Friday, March 12, 2010
The Art of the Well Written Note
The tooth fairy is my least favorite of the magical characters. She's a bit forgetful, and not very prompt. Sometimes she shows up a couple of days late, at least around here. And her demanding those teeth? C'mon. Doesn't she know that six, seven, and eight year olds lose everything? How in the world are they supposed to keep track of those miniscule teeth?
The phrase "I lost my tooth!" is always accompanied by tears. We should know. I don't think Griffin has gotten any of his first four actually under the pillow. Instead he has had to settle for a note of explanation which he hoped the tooth fairy would honor. She did.
Tonight, though, I really thought we had it. He managed to get home from school with it still in his pocket. After he dropped it on the back patio, we were able to locate it. When he misplaced it after dinner, he was able to find it. But then, just as he was brushing his teeth before bed, I heard the other shoe drop in the form of heartbroken sobs.
"What happened?" I asked as I hurried toward the bathroom.
He met me outside the door, tears streaming down his face. "I lost my tooth."
Man, we were so close this time.
"It went down the drain!" he cried.
"Oh, no. Were you trying to make it nice and shiny?" I guessed taking in the wet toothbrush, puddles of water, and copious amount of toothpaste covering the vanity.
"Yes. And then I dropped it, and it went down the drain."
"Don't cry, honey. We'll see if Daddy can get it," I said.
"Yeah," Logan comforted. "And if he can't we can just write a note."
We're good at notes around here.
Mr. Wicke did find it, but if somehow Griffin loses it between the bathroom and his bed, we've got it covered. Take that, Tooth Fairy!
The phrase "I lost my tooth!" is always accompanied by tears. We should know. I don't think Griffin has gotten any of his first four actually under the pillow. Instead he has had to settle for a note of explanation which he hoped the tooth fairy would honor. She did.
Tonight, though, I really thought we had it. He managed to get home from school with it still in his pocket. After he dropped it on the back patio, we were able to locate it. When he misplaced it after dinner, he was able to find it. But then, just as he was brushing his teeth before bed, I heard the other shoe drop in the form of heartbroken sobs.
"What happened?" I asked as I hurried toward the bathroom.
He met me outside the door, tears streaming down his face. "I lost my tooth."
Man, we were so close this time.
"It went down the drain!" he cried.
"Oh, no. Were you trying to make it nice and shiny?" I guessed taking in the wet toothbrush, puddles of water, and copious amount of toothpaste covering the vanity.
"Yes. And then I dropped it, and it went down the drain."
"Don't cry, honey. We'll see if Daddy can get it," I said.
"Yeah," Logan comforted. "And if he can't we can just write a note."
We're good at notes around here.
Mr. Wicke did find it, but if somehow Griffin loses it between the bathroom and his bed, we've got it covered. Take that, Tooth Fairy!
Monday, February 1, 2010
Hardly the Invention of Lying
The children burst through the door after school, amid tears, shouts, and accusations.
"Mom?"
"Mom!! He's lying!"
"No I'm not. Mom?!"
"Yes you are! Mom!!"
"What is going on? Whoa. Stop. Just a--" The dam burst. Yelling over the top of the other, trying to be the first to tell the story, neither the voice of reason. It is amazing how much noise two children can make. "Stop. STOP!! Okay...we're going to talk one at a time. You'll both get a turn. Griffin, you first."
It didn't go that smoothly, but the stories finally did pour out and stood in total opposition to one another.
"He's lying!"
"She's lying!"
"How can he say that?" Logan blubbered. "Ever since I turned 8, I've been trying very hard not to lie!!"
"Okay. Logan, it is going to be fine. Look, it's clear that one of you is not telling the truth, and I can easily find out who that is. All I have to do is call the parents of the other children who were there. Do I need to do that? Or is someone going to tell the truth right now, because I'll tell you what. If I do have to make that phone call and find out who isn't being honest? That person is going to be in a lot more trouble."
Immediately, Griffin hung his head. "I'm lying," he confessed.
Two days later we sat in church together. As they began passing the Sacrament Logan whispered proudly, "I think I'll read the scriptures." She opened her scriptures to where she had left off days before and began reading quietly in my ear. "And wo unto the liar for he shall be thrust down to hell." She slowly turned to face me, her eyes big with sudden realization. "I'm worried about Griffin after reading that verse," she whispered.
"Well, honey." I stifled a smile. The timing was impeccable. "He's only six. He's just learning."
"...Oh, okay..." but she didn't seem wholly convinced.
A few minutes later I overheard her whispering to her brother. "Griffin. I want you to read this verse. 'Wo unto the liar for he shall be thrust down to hell.' This is a very important verse that you should remember, okay?"
And bless his little, gentle heart, he responded without offense and with a very serious, "Okay."
It occurs to me that perhaps I should remind her of the scripture regarding the beam in one's own eye, but for all there is wrong about this scenario, there is so much that is right. Watching my children grow is both funny and tender.
Childhood is a remarkably unique time in that their ability to fight is only matched by their ability to forgive. They constantly bump and trip over each other, one moment in love, the next in confrontation, but in that ying and yang that is the sibling experience, they are one another's very best teachers. It is through that jostling that the rough edges are knocked off. They learn empathy; they learn to apologize; and, in this case, they learn that liars are thrust down to hell.
Look. Somebody had to say it. (wink.)
"Mom?"
"Mom!! He's lying!"
"No I'm not. Mom?!"
"Yes you are! Mom!!"
"What is going on? Whoa. Stop. Just a--" The dam burst. Yelling over the top of the other, trying to be the first to tell the story, neither the voice of reason. It is amazing how much noise two children can make. "Stop. STOP!! Okay...we're going to talk one at a time. You'll both get a turn. Griffin, you first."
It didn't go that smoothly, but the stories finally did pour out and stood in total opposition to one another.
"He's lying!"
"She's lying!"
"How can he say that?" Logan blubbered. "Ever since I turned 8, I've been trying very hard not to lie!!"
"Okay. Logan, it is going to be fine. Look, it's clear that one of you is not telling the truth, and I can easily find out who that is. All I have to do is call the parents of the other children who were there. Do I need to do that? Or is someone going to tell the truth right now, because I'll tell you what. If I do have to make that phone call and find out who isn't being honest? That person is going to be in a lot more trouble."
Immediately, Griffin hung his head. "I'm lying," he confessed.
Two days later we sat in church together. As they began passing the Sacrament Logan whispered proudly, "I think I'll read the scriptures." She opened her scriptures to where she had left off days before and began reading quietly in my ear. "And wo unto the liar for he shall be thrust down to hell." She slowly turned to face me, her eyes big with sudden realization. "I'm worried about Griffin after reading that verse," she whispered.
"Well, honey." I stifled a smile. The timing was impeccable. "He's only six. He's just learning."
"...Oh, okay..." but she didn't seem wholly convinced.
A few minutes later I overheard her whispering to her brother. "Griffin. I want you to read this verse. 'Wo unto the liar for he shall be thrust down to hell.' This is a very important verse that you should remember, okay?"
And bless his little, gentle heart, he responded without offense and with a very serious, "Okay."
It occurs to me that perhaps I should remind her of the scripture regarding the beam in one's own eye, but for all there is wrong about this scenario, there is so much that is right. Watching my children grow is both funny and tender.
Childhood is a remarkably unique time in that their ability to fight is only matched by their ability to forgive. They constantly bump and trip over each other, one moment in love, the next in confrontation, but in that ying and yang that is the sibling experience, they are one another's very best teachers. It is through that jostling that the rough edges are knocked off. They learn empathy; they learn to apologize; and, in this case, they learn that liars are thrust down to hell.
Look. Somebody had to say it. (wink.)
Friday, October 30, 2009
Holiday Rush
Today is the second day this week that Griffin has had to run for the bus with his shoes...in his hands. Except today he was dressed as Spiderman.
Happy Halloween!
Monday, October 19, 2009
A Dinosaur Party for Griffin
The party season has begun! From October 1st through Christmas we are very busy here at The Tea Party Place. Griffin's birthday is the kick off, followed by my own, then Halloween, then Logan's birthday, then Thanksgiving, and then Christmas. Whew! I'm tired just thinking about it, so I try not to. "Just one party at a time," that's my motto.
This one was a huge success. The kids loved making their own dinosaur fossils out of salt dough and the archeological dig in the park for "dinosaur bones" was a blast. Luckily for me they were selling a bag of bones at the halloween store. Once I got Griffin to stop telling everyone I was burying "people bones" we were just fine.
This one was a huge success. The kids loved making their own dinosaur fossils out of salt dough and the archeological dig in the park for "dinosaur bones" was a blast. Luckily for me they were selling a bag of bones at the halloween store. Once I got Griffin to stop telling everyone I was burying "people bones" we were just fine.
Making Fossils
Party Hats
Digging for Dinosaur Bones
Now it's on to planning a Clue party for Logan. Since she loves mysteries--particularly Nancy Drew--I had the bright idea of basing the party off of the Clue board game. She's excited...now I just have to figure out how to do it.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Overheard in Our House Today
Griffin (talking to our dog Roxy): Hey, Roxy! I'm six today!
Birthday cake #1
Happy birthday, Griffin! Let the fun begin!
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