School

When I was about eleven years old I watched a documentary on PBS with my parents. It was about asteroids and the possibility of one hitting the earth, causing unparalleled destruction and death. I didn't sleep for days and was totally unable to verbalize my fears. I am sure my parents had no idea the effect the show had on me, otherwise I'm pretty sure they would have removed all screens from our house in order to prevent it from happening again. But they didn't know, and so what has turned into a life long love/hate relationship with indulging in anxiety inducing information has continued with me into adulthood. Except now it's not asteroids (or super volcanoes (thanks for that one, Mr. Wells, 10th grade geography teacher) or black holes or nuclear winters or disease pandemics). Instead, it's school.

If you're friends with me on Facebook, then no doubt you've seen one of the countless early childhood related articles I've posted, most likely about the push for earlier and earlier reading. I've become a bit obsessed with this for a variety of reasons - one, I have two young children, and two, I work with adults who hate reading, and I often feel that there is a pretty compelling reason why adults hate to read, and it usually stems from their own early education. I'm also very much keyed into the subject specifically because of my daughter, E. I'm sure I've mentioned before that she is very open about her dislike of school. This year, by far, has been much, much easier than last year. Last year, all year, nearly every day, there were tears and begging to stay home. This year is a huge improvement, but nary a day goes by where I don't hear, "Do I have to go?" and when she hears, "Yes, you do," I then get, "But I hate school."

Now, let's make a few things clear: E. has a fabulous teacher. She's fun, engaging, and seriously gives a damn. I love her, and, more importantly, E. loves her. Second, E. is good at school, both socially and academically. There are academic subjects she loves (like reading and writing) and she does well in all, and she has a tight little group of friends who she adores playing with. She doesn't get in trouble and sort of just fits the mold of the kind of kid who does well in the typical school environment.

So, all these things listed above are not things I'm worried about. She has a good teacher, is doing well socially and academically, and isn't a more "spirited" child than usual. What worries me is that, despite having all this going for her, she still hates school. Her reasoning is, she says, is that she's bored. And no, not academically bored (and she's not - she is, all things considered, an average student, falling right where she's supposed to), at least not in the traditional sense, but bored because she wants to play, because she wants more time with her friends, because she wants to engage in what she likes.

As I consider this, part of me says, "Well, she can't play and be with her friends all the time, because, you know, life." But then another (angry and loud) part of me says, "What the hell, she's seven, of course she can play and be with her friends all the time!" And then the third part of me says, "Well, perhaps there's a little ground?" And maybe there is? But what?

I don't feel like the school situation is going to improve. Many I've spoken to about this has half-heartedly shrugged and said, "Maybe it will be better next year?" but they already know the truth -  school doesn't get better as we get older. I mean, there are exceptions, but did you ever say to yourself, "Oh, man, seventh grade is waaaaay better than third!" Um, no. I thought not.

All this brings on a wave of anxiety and I feel paralyzed by our lack of choices. I feel sad and angry because I'm unsure of what to do that will help. And I feel guilty because I feel like I'm being too hard on our education system and the good teachers involved. And I can't seem to escape the information. All while under the guise of being "well informed" I indulge in those anxiety inducing articles about children's needs for more time outside, less standardized testing, and fewer outside pressures. It's as though I'm back in front of that PBS documentary and I can't look away or leave the room, even though I'm horribly disturbed. I can't look away now, either, though I fully realize that the damage I imagine that's being incurred is not nearly as catastrophic.

So, what's a mom to do? For now, I tell myself I'll make life at home a sanctuary, pleasant, peaceful, and unstructured. I'll continue to talk positively at school, but not pass judgement when she says she hates it. I'll try to stay tuned in to what's happening at school, acknowledging that she does do well when she's there, that there are no signs of this dislike that she expresses to me. I'll do all this and hope that over time she does feel better about school...or that we find some other way.

Be Like the Woodpecker

The picture is not a very good one, I know, but trust me when I tell you that the little black blob hanging off the birch towards the center of the photo is a woodpecker. As I was walking this morning I heard the telltale thwack-crack that is a woodpecker working his way through the trunk of a tree. It was much slower than I would usually hear, so at first I didn't realize what it was. On my way back around though, about a half hour later, in a contemplative sort of mood, I paused and listened once more. When I turned and looked up into the trees I saw this fellow, and though the picture doesn't show it, he was big! Of course, most of the birds we see around our house are the smaller types, mostly chickadees, so anything much larger than a tennis ball seems huge to me.

I watched him for a bit, intrigued by the difference in his method this season compared to warmer times. Rather than his jackhammer beak riveting its way into the tree, his progress was slow and steady, the tree frozen, making it hard to get to its life-giving innards. I don't know why, but watching him made me smile. Perhaps that it was life still goes on, though much slower, during this time of year, even if it sometimes feels like everything had paused. Even with the frightening cold we've had these last few weeks, the outside animals still live and work. 

I think, also, I saw something I needed to see. He worked with such determination, though the conditions were far from perfect and the results would likely not be what he truly wanted. I, too, often find myself in imperfect conditions that produce results that were not what I had originally desired. I will thrust myself forward, over and over, not in that quick, efficient pace, but slowly and deliberately, hoping each time I move myself against the thing I am working to break open, I will reach the prize within. 

The woodpecker was working because if he does not, he will starve. My work, the work of fulling my life with good and nurturing things, is not one that, in the biological sense, will kill me if left neglected. But should I stop and not take what little bits I can get as I break away the bark of life's challenges, certainly my soul will shrivel to nothing.

Though I don't always feel the strength or the motivation to dig into the things that give me the most nourishment, to get at the most filling and good stuff, I think I must remember that I must.

Note: Since I wrote this a woodpecker has since decided to make itself at home underneath one of the eves of our house. Perhaps he sensed our kinship?

Five Things My Five Year Old Has Taught Me

1.  Use your words...less. Whether it's giving E. directions or answering one of her many questions, the less I say, the more I get. Commands are simply and gently stated, but they are still commands ("Brush you teeth," versus "Could you please go brush you teeth?"). Questions need answering, but she doesn't need my somewhat exhaustive answers, rooted in history or science. Sometimes those sweet fairy tale-esque answers are just fine or even the occasional, "I don't know."

In life the words you leave out are just as important as the ones you include. I'm a talker (you may have picked that up if you've read this blog enough), but I've had to learn to parse and watch my words and this whole "thinking before you speak" stuff has helped me beyond making sure E. gets herself together before we step out of the house.

2. "But Mama, you're so pretty!" Sometimes she might saying it to suck up to me, but you can't deny that earnest and slightly baffled look when E., queen of the selfie, begs me to let her take my picture and I'm more than a bit reluctant. It's easy to forget sometimes that I am E.'s first standard of feminine beauty (I promise I'm not as arrogant as that just sounded) and body image confidence. It's also easy to forget I'm not quite as hideous looking as I seem to think I am (despite my husband reminding me pretty frequently I'm not hideous at all), but having E. around has reminded that not only do I need to at least pretend that I think I'm beautiful, but there might even be some truth behind it.

3. Get out and meet people! I'm a huge homebody and despite my pretty gregarious personality, I actually hate meeting new people. When E. was a baby and toddler, it wasn't such a problem. All she needed was me and daddy! But now that she's older, play dates are starting to become THE thing to do, which means mama has to *gasp* talk to other parents who I might not already know. It's been hard, especially when I really have no idea who a kid's parents are and I have to make a phone call in order to get together (I haaaate making phone calls), but I've been doing it.

4. It's not a race. If you're a parent you probably already know this, but kids, especially the small ones, really feed off your energy. If you're stressed out and racing around, they're going to be very much out of sorts. It took me a while, but the mornings where I was more relaxed and took my time getting everybody ready for the day, the more likely we were to actually get out of the house and to school on time. If I was a crazy lady, pushing through things as quickly as I could, those were the mornings where everything went to hell, and we'd even had forgotten the hand basket.

5. You can say please...But you don't have to be a people pleaser. Well, E. could still use some work on her manners, as is the case for most five year olds, but I've given up on having one of those smiley, ever-so-sweet little girls. E. knows what she wants and is very confident in telling people. She'll tell you she really liked something or really didn't. No, she will not hug/kiss you if she doesn't want to (and I'm not going to make her). And while she will certainly wait politely for her turn for a piece of birthday cake, she'll certainly make the request for the one with the purple flower.

E. has a confidence about her that I never had, and I always felt like I was a pretty confident kid and then adult. While she does care, to an extent, about what people think, I don't think it's on the top of her mind, like it has been for me for much of my life. Having E. for a daughter has shown me to take joy in myself and to worry less about the opinions of others and that it's not always my job to make sure people are happy.