'Tis the Season

It's that time of year again: the season of giving.  No, not Christmas. I speak of different gifts that others are sharing earlier this season than others it seems.  Unfortunately, this gift is one that no store will take back - with or without a receipt.  There are no refunds.  You can't even re-gift it.  No one wants it.  It will make any recipient recoil in horror and send them running for the nearest hand sanitizer and disinfectant to spray your way to repel you. It is one size fits all - a little invisible, creepy, crawly gift that I would much rather the giver keep for themselves.  It is the flu bug.  ♫'Tis the season for the flu bug, fa-la-la-la- blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.♫

It's amazing how generous others can be with this gift.  There are moments where I can not get anyone to give me a minute of their time, lend me an ear, or give me a hand, yet no one hesitates to pass on the flu.

As I shivered in bed the other night under the covers with my Nyquil and hot tea after receiving this lovely gift of the flu from an anonymous giver, I watched as an anchorman on the news reported that over 250 students at a local college were absent from classes due to the "swine flu".  Even pigs, apparently have gotten in on the gift giving; who would have thought?  And now, because those little farm dwellers have gotten in on the act and have mutated this germy gift into a particularly contagious version of "pass it on", the flu is now headline news. By then the Nyquil kicked in and sleep overcame me. I dreamt of little pigs in Santa hats delivering virulent, moldy green packages underneath Christmas trees and stealing cookies that had been left for Santa.  By morning, I switched to Dayquil. Delerious visions of crazed Santa-pigs would not help get me through my day. 

I decided that while I had this flu, I would do my best to keep this gift all to myself. Normally I am not so selfish, but in this case, I thought it would be appreciated.  I quarantined myself off, for the most part, in my bedroom.  When the kids wanted to kiss me goodbye, I told them to blow me kisses, and I "blew" them kisses back.  Homework help was done at as much a distance apart as possible, with my son reading what was on his worksheet to me since I could not see it from across the room and then me telling him what that problem meant so that he could solve it.  Binoculars aided in checking whether it was correct or not once completed. School photo order forms were slipped under the door for me to sign and the slipped back out again once completed to be placed in each child's backpack.  I was determined to keep this flu away from my family. 

Then it occured to me that even with all my extra precautions, I still send my children out the door each day to a world full of invisible, creepy, crawly things that live on the surfaces of every thing they touch and float in the very air they breathe.  They will come into contact with hundreds of kids between the school bus, their classes, and the cafeteria at school.  And all those kids are constantly, silently sending out little "gifts".  Some of those gifts my children will end up keeping, whether they want them or not, and some may turn into one form of bug or another.  But at least this time, I will know they didn't get it from me.

The Assignment

My son Christopher had an assignment his first day of school.  He got to make a "Me bag".  In the bag, he was to include five things that told something about who he was and what he liked.  My son was very excited about his assignment.  Though it was a Tuesday and the assignment was not due until Friday, he set to work right away, gathering things that he thought would tell his teacher and classmates a little bit about himself. 

The first thing he chose was the bag itself.  He picked a blue reusable grocery bag because he decided this week his favorite color was blue (for the other eight years of his life it has been orange and red, but hey, everyone is entitled to change their mind). 

He then commenced his search for the items to put in the bag.  First in were some matchbox cars.  These went into the bag to reflect his love of watching racing and playing with his cars.  Next in the bag: his plush golden retriever and maltese puppy dogs.  These dogs look just like his dogs in real-life and were the next best things to actually being able to take man's best friends to school.  He loves his dogs and wanted to show the class what they looked like more than just taking a photo.  His next choice for the "me bag" was a Pittsburgh Steelers keychain.  He shares his daddy's love of our 'hometown' football team and will watch the games with his dad (for as long as each one holds his interest), so the keychain represented that.  Last, but not least, he put in my rock collection because he likes to collect cool rocks for me.

I say "my rock collection" because these are rocks that my son started bringing me as soon as he was old enough to walk.  It was when we lived in Switzerland and would take walks along the Aare River that he became interested in rocks.  The rocks there had particularly beautiful patterns on them and he loved playing with them.  One day, he brought me a rock to keep.  Then, months later, he found another he liked and gave it to me to add to the first on my desk.  Awhile later, there was another, and before I knew it, I had a collection of rocks from all over the world.  Some kids bring their moms little flowers they pick from the yard; my son brings me rocks. It makes me smile when he comes home from a walk or from school and hands me a little rock.  I smile because that little gesture lets me know that at one point during the day, he picked up that rock and thought of me.  (One day I even found I had one in my coat pocket and it made me think of him and chuckle because I had a rock in my pocket, but I digress.)

So, his bag was all packed for school.  I suggested he take it to school the next day so it would be there for Friday and he wouldn't forget it, but he wanted to wait so everyone would be surprised.  All week long, the "me bag" sat by the door.  Each day I would ask him if he wanted to take it and each day he said he would wait.  Finally the big day came.  It was Friday, time to take the "me bag" to school!  I kissed him good-bye and told him not to forget his bag, then kissed his sister good-bye, and turned to hold on to the dogs to keep them from going outside.  The bus came and went and when I turned to go upstairs, what did my eyes spot sitting near the door where my son exited just moments earlier?  His "ME BAG"!  My last words to him after "I love you" were "don't forget your me bag".  How he managed to still leave it sitting there remains a mystery.  But, he did. 

So, there I am, standing in disbelief looking at this bag that was so thoughtfully put together with such excitement, faced with a decision.  Do I pick up my keys and get in the car and drive the bag to the school for my son or do I leave the bag sit in its spot on the floor to teach my son to be more responsible and that there are consequences to his actions?  With an audible sigh, I took the keys off the hook by the door, picked up the bag, and... and put it back down again and placed the keys back on the hook.  Why?

The very fact that that bag was left sitting, forgotten, at the door, even though I reminded my son to take it with him just moments before he left for school that day reflected a part of who he is.  It was actually a part of the "me bag"! 

Christopher can go on a mission from one room to another and forget what the mission was halfway there and not be seen again for hours unless we send out a search party. Remember that attention span I spoke of in my intro of our family - the one of the gnat?  There it is.  Bless his little heart.  So, I had to let that part of him show that day, regardless of the consequences, so that he would learn from his mistake.

It was a tough decision, not bailing him out, and the "me bag" guilted me a bit sitting there all day, so I tossed a blanket over it.  (Out of sight, out of mind did help with the guilt.) 

When my son got home that day, I asked him how school went and what his teacher said when he didn't have his "me bag".  Turns out the teacher was OK with it.  She said to just bring it on Monday since other kids could talk about theirs that day.  (OK, so teacher didn't help with the responsibility lesson.)  So, I told Christopher that he wouldn't always be so lucky and he would have to be more responsible and learn to remember things and focus better.  I asked him how we might be able to do this.  He said maybe he could write notes.  I told him that was a great idea.  So, we have some post-it notes that he is going to use to write on and stick on his bedroom door to remember important things.  He is also going to try to stay more focused on one task at a time and not get distracted by other things.  It will take time, but it will come to him. 

Monday came and he remembered to take his "me bag" to school.  He got to tell the class about all the items in his bag along with why he chose the bag itself.  And getting to chat about the items in his bag is also a big part of who he is.

The Chatterbox

My oldest daughter takes after her father.  She likes to talk... A LOT.  In the right social setting, this can be a gift; one I often wish I was blessed with.  But in other places, left unchecked, it can be inappropriate.  One of those places is in the classroom at school. 

During her fifth grade year, my daughter's motor mouth landed her in the sights of her teacher's radar early on in the school year and from then on, she was constantly targeted for talking in class.  Every day, her clip was being moved out of the "green zone" on the behavioral stop light and into the "yellow" for her constant chatting.  If it made it to "red", it was principal time and eventually went on to her permanent record to follow her wherever she went.  She never made it that far because I decided it was time to intervene. 

Jessica's father and I had talked with our daughter and told her there were appropriate times to talk at school, such as lunch, recess, etc.  We had previously grounded her for getting in trouble for talking, only to have her do it again a few days later.  Our daughter explained at one point that other kids were talking when she was and they didn't get in trouble, but we told her that the point is, they should not have been talking either and that just because others were doing something, doesn't make it OK for her to do it. (Insert your best "if your friends jumped off a cliff would you do it" here.)  And besides that, she had made a target of herself early on and now she had to deal with the consequences of that. 

The problem went on until one day I told my daughter that if she got into trouble for talking one more time, I was going to go to school with her and babysit her in class since she didn't seem to be able to handle it on her own.  I told her I may or may not go dressed in my pajamas, depending on my mood that day.  I told her I would sit in her classroom, follow her to lunch, etc. until talking was a problem no more. 

Now, my children know me.  They know when I say something, I follow through; so even if there was an inkling of doubt in my daughter's mind, it must have been enough to keep her on the quiet path for awhile because she did quite well for about two weeks.  But then it happened one Friday.  She just couldn't hold it in any longer.  All that chatter that she had been holding inside of her for the last two weeks just couldn't be held in anymore and came bursting out of her like lava from a volcano.  Her clip made it into the "yellow zone" once more and it was the moment of truth.  She begged and pleaded for me to give her one more chance.  I explained I gave her plenty of chances already and that I didn't know of any other way to make this clear to her: that when she talks during class, it interrupts learning and is disrespectful to the teacher.  I informed her that come Monday morning, mother and daughter would attend school together.  She was quite upset and asked if I would be wearing my pajamas.  (This, apparently, was an even bigger concern than me being at school - what I would be wearing.  Oh the embarrassment!)  I told her I would see how tired I felt on Monday, whether or not I felt like getting dressed or just throwing on my robe and slippers.  I called her teacher and informed her of my plan and the arrangements were made.

What a long weekend that must have been for her! The agony and worry that she must have suffered that weekend alone was probably worse than the punishment itself! 

Monday arrived, the big day.  I decided to minimize her embarrassment (and the distraction my pj's would cause in the classroom) and get casually dressed.  I sat in the back of the room close to my daughter's desk and watched over her all day. I went to lunch with my daughter and chatted with her and her friends during lunch.  My daughter, oddly enough, was very quiet during this time.  Then back to class we went where I finished sitting watch over my little chatterbox. (I also observed the teacher and noticed that there was a good bit of disorganization, especially during transitional times, in which there were a lot of children talking. If this were more organized, chatting and moving about the room could be cut down in general.  She was a younger, inexperienced teacher and did not have a good command of her classroom.  I brought that point to the principal later, who said she was aware of that and was having a mentor teacher work with her.)

It was a looong day for both of us, but an important one.  My daughter learned that I dared and cared enough to follow through on my word. And I learned why she talked in class when she talked, though I was not excusing her for it.  I had spent a day in her shoes and had seen what the classroom dynamics were. 

When the day was over, I asked her if I needed to go to school with her the next day or if she thought she could handle things on her own from now on.  She insisted she could contain her chatter and no longer needed me to watch over her at school.  I told her I would give her a chance to prove herself then, but if I had to go back, it would be every day for a week and this time I would wear my robe and slippers and might not comb my hair. 

But, she was right.  From that day on (two years now - I should give her some kind of pin), she remained in the "green zone", apparently so mortified that I might show up in her classroom again one day that she kept her chatter to herself until it was the right time to socialize.

Tales of a Seventh-Grader Mother

So, there I was, standing in the new homeroom of my oldest daughter Jessica, who is entering the seventh grade this year, during her school's open house.  And I found myself thinking, "What am I doing here?"  "How did I get to be the mother of a seventh grader?!"  It seemed so surreal.  I couldn't possibly be old enough to have a daughter going into the seventh grade! I was surrounded by teenagers that looked beyond their years.

Where did the years go?  It seems like yesterday I was kissing her baby feet.  Now, as much as I still love my daughter, I wouldn’t dream of kissing those stinky, sweaty feet after they have spent a day of running around in her Converse sneakers!  Where is that baby that used to hang on my every word and laugh at every funny face I made?  Now, almost thirteen years later, I have to mention something like money just to get her attention and the mere sight of me at the wrong moment could cause her dire embarrassment in front of her friends.  The baby who used to want cuddled and held and rocked to sleep at night would now rather spend the day hanging out with her friends and spend the night going to sleepovers. 

I am not the only one who has noticed this “growing” phenomenon.  Even my daughter herself has noticed changes in her friends this year.  On her first day of school, I asked her about her day and the biggest thing she had to tell me was how much her friends had changed over the summer.  She couldn’t believe how tall some of them had gotten.  According to her, one girl had grown eight inches, seriously, eight inches!  Another girl that used to have long blond hair now has short black hair and yet another has gone “Goth” with black clothing and leopard leggings.  One more has hair that is two colors at the same time!  She was even interested in the clothes her teachers were wearing, describing her Civics teacher’s outfit down to the funky pattern on his tie. 

Jessica has noticed that her friends are growing up too and with that they are exploring their own sense of style and testing their independence.  My daughter’s style used to be determined by me:  cute little coordinating outfits with ruffled socks and the occasional dress with bonnets in the summertime.  Now that she is on the brink of “teendom”, the only Ruffles that come near her are of the Frito-Lay variety and the last dress she wore was for her first communion because it was a must.  

Yes, my baby is growing up.  No, she is not there yet, but it is happening and there is nothing I can do to stop it.  All I can do is help her along.  She has already gone through so many changes from the first time I held her in my arms and she will go through many more in the next few years.  It will be a rocky road for her, (and most likely for her father and I), these coming teen years.  I have already had “the talk” with my daughter, and many other talks.  I make time to chat with her and make sure she knows she can come to me with anything, good or bad, and that it will never change how much I love her.

All I can say is cherish every moment with your children because it goes by in a blink.  Don't wait until "tomorrow".  Take the time to play with them today.  Talk with them today.  Teach them today. Snuggle with them today and let them know they are loved like crazy.

Hopefully everything we have taught our daughter and will continue to teach her, and all the love we have given her and will continue to give her will provide her with the skills to cope with the challenges she will face in the coming years and to embrace the joys life has to offer as well.  Because at some point, no matter how much we want to hold on, we will have to let go.

Random Acts of Patience

Did you ever find yourself wishing or praying for more patience?  And did you ever notice it doesn't ever get handed to you in a nice little gift bag or on a silver platter?  Patience is one of those things that I think is given to us through opportunities.  You don't have to look for them, they find you; some small, some big, every single day. 

As parents, our patience is tested more times than McDonald's has served hamburgers.  Yet the culmination of how we pass or fail those tests has an impact on our children greater than we can imagine.  It shapes their self-esteem, how they interact with others, and what their own patience meter turns out to be.  I don't know when I began to notice other parents' stress meters, but more and more lately, I see patience levels falling.  I can only speculate as to why.  Maybe it is the struggling economy, the stress of both parents having to work and then come home and take care of the children and household chores, the high divorce rates and single-parent homes, or the fact that our kids seem to be growing up much faster nowadays and facing adult-like challenges sooner now than they used to. 

I have always noticed the signs of a person starting to short-circuit.  That started in my own childhood.  So, I have well over 30 years experience in recognizing the signs.  But only recently did I feel confident enough to reach out and do something about it.  Before, I feared that maybe if I spoke up, the parent would become more hostile or there would be worse repercussions for the child once they got home.  But, I started to look at things in a different light in the past year or so.  Not just "how can I help this child", but "how can I help this parent" out at this moment?  There is a saying I read one day that I find applicable here, "Be nice to everyone you meet. They're facing battles you have no idea about."  There is no way of knowing what a person is going through or why they might have lost their patience with someone at a given moment.  They might be like that all the time, or it just might be a bad snapshot in an otherwise wonderful album of a personality.  Losing one's patience doesn't make them a bad person.  We have all been there.  But it's being aware that we are doing it, or have done it and then reconciling afterward that makes a difference.

Maybe the recent realization and confidence is partly a result of my volunteer work.  I volunteer as a Court Appointed Special Advocate (CASA), speaking on behalf of and working with abused and neglected children in the court system and foster care.  While doing this volunteer work, I can't help but think, what can be done before these families get to this point?

Last week I was at the local pool with my husband and children when I saw a mother and her very small six-year-old girl near us.  The mother was holding her daughter trying to teach her how to tread water.  Then she would let go and the girl would sink.  They did this over and over and over again until the mother was frustrated and yelling at her daughter that if she didn't do it they were going to leave, and the little girl was crying.  I watched them, wondering why it was so vital that this child have to learn to tread water on the last day the pool was open and the little girl starting school the next day.  Why couldn't she go have fun and play with the other kids and splash in the pool and stand under the buckets that dump water on the kids' heads on her last day of summer vacation?  Watching the little girl, she could barely swim, let alone tread water.  She was only able to swim underwater for short bursts. 

So, I took a chance and approached them. I gently introduced myself and asked what her daughter was trying to learn.  The mother's demeanor softened and she explained to me what she was trying to teach her.  My middle daughter was nearby.  I told the mother that I used to teach swimming and had once been a lifeguard and had taught my own children to swim. I said I would be happy to work with her daughter for awhile if the two of them didn't mind.  She was very happy about that.  I asked the little girl her name, told her mine again, then introduced her to my daughter Sara and showed her how she was treading water.  I told her I taught Sara to do that.  I asked if she felt ok about me spending some time with her and she said she was.  So, her mom went off to relax for awhile under the umbrellas poolside and her daughter and I spent some time together practicing the basics of treading while chatting about school and swimming and such.  I told her treading takes a long time to learn and gave her some visuals and pointers to keep in mind. I used a lot of positive reinforcement as well and she loved to hear what a good job she was doing.  After the adult swim came and went, this little girl sought me out and wanted to learn some more, so we spent more time together while my children went down the slide with their dad.  Her mom was very relaxed now chatting on her cell phone. 

Once our lesson was done, I talked with the child's mom and told her some pointers that we used to remember for the next time.  She was very appreciative and then the little girl was allowed to swim and play the rest of the afternoon. 

On another occasion, my family and I were at a local pizza chain having dinner one weekend.  There was a young mother there with a toddler and infant in a booth at the end of the room.  The toddler was climbing all over the booth and the baby started to fuss and eventually went into that all-out crying mode for his bottle.  The mom was clearly frustrated trying to feed the baby and keep the toddler from running through the restaurant.  At one point she grabbed the toddler by the shirt, yelling at him.  It was clear she was overwhelmed.  I went by her table and told her she had beautiful boys.  She thanked me and I started to talk to her toddler, asking him if he was helping take care of his baby brother.  He started to engage in talking and then sat in his seat.  The mother and I got to chatting then and I just listened as she talked for awhile.  It turned out her husband worked in the restaurant and she was waiting for him to get off, but his shift was running late.  The kids were tired and hungry and the little boy knew his dad was in the kitchen and kept trying to go back there.  She seemed calmer just having someone to chat with while waiting and so did her son having "company" there to interact with and behave for. 

These were not heroic feats by any means.  But I hope that in reaching out to people in these small ways, it helps someone on that edge of losing the last of their patience see things from a new perspective, be able to take that breath, and just have someone to vent their frustration to.  Don't be afraid to reach out to someone and just listen. 

And when it comes to our own families, remember that patience is something that comes through practice; so practice every chance you get - like you would with yoga, or running, or other interests you have.  The more you practice it, the more naturally it will come.  Believe me, you will never find it wrapped up for you under the Christmas tree!