The Pygmy Antelope

I have an eleven year old. I used to blog about him here, when he was little and said hysterical things. I remember his chubby baby hands and his adorable baby voice. Daddy went to work and, for a minute there, it was just him and me all day long. I didn't work outside the home. There weren't any other kids until he was two and a half. I don't remember how we filled the days but there must have been a great deal of playing and reading. He took a nap or, at least, a rest, every day and I blogged a lot about life back then.

More children came. Preschool started. Then he went to kindergarten and first grade and second grade and third grade and fourth grade. Life barreled along with soccer, swimming lessons, homework, kid's club, scouts, and so many other things. I blogged less and less until it seemed the old fishbowl was just a thing I used to do.

But this first born of mine is pretty fantastic. He's always been one of my most favorite people on planet earth. He's an average kid in so many ways. Pretty average at sports, he makes up in heart what he often lacks in physical ability. A good student, but he's not a card holding member of the Genius Club. I doubt he'll graduate valedictorian or get a sport's scholarship to college. He's a loud mouth with more ego strength in his index finger than some people get in a lifetime. We're constantly telling ourselves that if we can harness all that confidence for good, he'll make a fine young man some day.

He's playing football right now. He plays down an age group because he's a miniature human. Even playing with ten-year-olds, he's one of the smallest. Even playing with ten-year-olds he made the B team. He didn't care. He shrugged off the disappointment, assuming he's right where he's supposed to be. He has a work ethic that won't quit, the heart of a lion in the body of a pygmy antelope.

He is small but he has all the confidence in the world. He made student council--a position he had to interview for. Last night, he earned his Tenderfoot rank--which required a Board of Review that he had to request himself. He's soaring so high above grade level in reading. He carries on conversations with adult strangers and experiences zero anxiety. He chooses to be a leader. The school librarian recently told me, "He is so kind. I do not know him very well, but I know that he is kind." 

He has befriended a student who struggles socially, sitting somewhere on the autism spectrum. This boy adores my son and is doing really well having Garrett beside him. In my drama class, I often ask the students to pair up. The other boy instantly stands next to my son. Perhaps Garrett would like, from time to time, to be paired up with someone else. But when asked, he shrugs his shoulders. "It's okay, Mom," he tells me. "He's comfortable with me and I don't want to leave any man behind."

He wants to be in the military when he grows up. Many mamas try to steer their precious boys away from such a career. But my son, at 11, doesn't want to leave any man behind. I can't imagine a better man to stand by on the field of battle. And I have all the confidence that he would run into enemy fire to drag a brother out of harm's way. 

He is average in so many ways. But he is also amazing. And as I think back 12 years, to a time when I was begging and pleading with my Lord for the gift of a child, I have to smile because this precious child is worth every second of the wait.

What Will Their Verse Be?

"The arts must be considered an essential element of education...They are tools for living life reflectively, joyfully, and with the ability to shape the future." -Shirley Trusty Corey

There's a problem. It's a problem that has its roots in the general idea that arts have no place in education, that they're not to be valued. In college, I did a research project on multiple intelligences. There are students sitting all day long in a classroom, practicing spelling and math through rote learning, that are kinesthetic learners who would thrive by moving around. There are students who learn best through naturalistic approaches, students who would really, really learn if they were taught through music, and others who learn best in groups. We cannot cater to every learning style in every classroom, of course I know that. But when we give our children an opportunity to learn in a way not typically represented in their day to day lives, we open up the door to reach them on an entirely different level.

Some people assume that my classroom is play time. I assure you that it is not. It is teaching students, from five years old to nearly middle schoolers, to work together, to encourage one another, to be brave and bold. I am attempting to cultivate an environment where students shed inhibitions and realize, maybe for the first time, that they can stand in front of their peers and speak. They can be creative without fear of failure. I am teaching playwriting and storytelling, dramatic structure, character analysis and SO MANY MORE STANDARDS, y'all. And I'm teaching students not to be afraid of their own shadows. In this day of technology and screens and computers and iPads, I'm teaching them to look one another in the eye and CREATE SOMETHING TOGETHER.

Innovation comes from original and creative thinkers.

Theatre is every art form rolled into one brilliant attempt to tell the next story. It is dance and music and visual. It is technical and verbal and organized. It is not practical. Who among us will make a rich living through drama? No. It is not practical. Neither is algebra. For who among us is using that on a daily basis? I certainly am not. Oh sure, there are many jobs that require algebra. Most of us are not doing them. We find our niche. We embrace the things we love. Who are we to tell a child what that will be? Who are we to tell them that math and science and language arts are more important than theatre or visual arts or music? Who are we to value the core subjects as instruction and everything else as disposable? Who is to know when we might be teaching algebra or spelling to the next Van Gogh, the next Bach, the next Stanislavski?

Please, I beg of you, do not tell your children that the arts are not valuable. In fact, they are invaluable. Your child may think and learn and grow in a typical classroom environment and may never, personally, see the value in a class like drama. But I assure you, so many of them do.

"...the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote Whitman, 'O me! O life!...of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless...of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?' Answer. That you are here--that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?" -Dead Poets Society

Trash Collector

My 15 month old son has a compulsion to throw ALL THE THINGS away. To be fair, he has no earthly idea that the trash disappears and never, ever comes back. He just thinks the large plastic tub is another storage bin. Still, I've opened the lid of that can to find:

Dozens of packets of oatmeal

Matchbox cars

Water bottles

Sippy Cups

A box of aluminum foil

Dish towels

(partial list)

One day, in the not so distant past, our wee broom and dust pan disappeared. "Where could it be?" we four asked one another in confusion. It's a dust pan and broom. It does not grow legs and walk away. We searched high and low, low and high before declaring it gone forever. There was simply nowhere that an object of its size could be hidden. Will must have thrown it away. I have no idea how many other items have been tossed without my knowledge. 

This past weekend, with my parents visiting, Will disposed of three of his beloved Weebles (the kind that wobble but don't fall down). We searched in cabinets and under furniture. We dug through bins of toys and drawers of clothing. At one point, there were four adults and two elementary school children simultaneously hunting for Willy, Winston, and Wendy Weeble. One of those elementary aged children claimed to have looked in the trash can not once but twice. However, upon an adult searching the receptacle, the missing Weebles were discovered. This was splendid good news because the Weeble family and their tree house just happen to be at the top of the list of Will's most favorite toys.

My mother suggested a locking trash can so that nothing too terribly important got hauled off to the dump. My brother and sister-in-law have one so she knew just what to look for. Off we went in search of a wastebasket that was smarter than my toddler. She texted my sister-in-law. "Where did you get your locking trash can?" My sister-in-law replied, "Tessie or Will? I'm guessing Will." You don't have to live near family to have a finger on the pulse of their circumstances. Also, they have a two-year-old. She said she'd gotten it at Walmart or Target. We couldn't find any locking cans at Walmart but Target didn't disappoint.

Meet my new trash can. 

Will is HIGH energy. He's into everything. He screams like a crazed banshee when he doesn't get his way and I've told many a teacher that he's going to be the kid who needs his own private desk in the corner and, maybe, Ritalin. I'm joking. Maybe. I hope. But the thing about that kid is that he has a mechanical mind. I know it's a weird thing to notice about a toddler but he observes the way things work. He watches his brothers do things. He tries to copy them. I recently discovered that he knows how to unscrew bottle caps which I happen to think is COMPLETELY NUTS for a kid who doesn't even regularly say, "Mama."

That kid marched over to the new trash can. He tried to open the lid and inside I laughed a maniacal and somewhat evil laugh. "Muahahahahahahaha!" His grand plans to throw away ALL THE THINGS was foiled at last. Will dropped to his hands and knees. He peered, quizzically, at the foot pedal. He looked behind and beside the trash can. He stood back up. Examining the lid, he ran his hand around the lip. Then he placed both hands on the locking latch and pulled. That happens to be the exact way to open the trash can. He is mighty but he is still quite small and even the bigger boys have to pull pretty hard to get the lock to open. Will was unable to muster enough force to actually succeed. But I'm convinced that, had he been strong enough, he would have figured out that trash can in approximately three minutes.

This leads me to believe that he will grow up to be a mechanic or an engineer or a rocket scientist. But, it is ENTIRELY possible that he wants to be a trash collector.

Atatood

Who's to say how my youngest child will turn out. Right now he's fifteen months old and has more energy in his smallest toe than I have in my whole entire body on a good day. He's a nut case and I'm, quite frankly, a little concerned about what all that energy might do some day. Burn the house down by accident? Maybe.

But, the other two are a little more settled in their ways. And Matthew has a tendency to be quick tempered. Over ridiculous things. This is almost always a result of being over tired. At eight years old, the child still occasionally needs a nap. Garrett hasn't needed a nap since he was two years old so it is true that you cannot parent any two children the same way. 

On Thursday, I asked Matthew to go read. This is a school requirement and I had already recorded his minutes in his daily planner. I will spare you the details but suffice it to say that an insane amount of football coupled with being back in school caught up to my kid. He FLIPPED his lid. The meltdown was immediate and...a little crazy. 

I fully implemented the "you just wait until your father gets home" tactic. In the end, he lost screen time until he could earn enough points to get it back. He was given a list of ways to earn points. Most of them involved doing chores. One of them was writing me an apology note. He wasn't given any help with spelling or content. He brought me a note, folded and taped into a third grade version of origami. 

Dear mom, Sorry for my bad atatood. Next time i won't get mad. I will not flail my arms and huff and puff and blow up. I will never act like this again.

First off, I am contemplating only spelling attitude this new way. From now until forever. For the duration of my life. Second, I nearly died laughing about the huff and puff part. Once I recovered from that, I moved on to the little bit about how he would never act like that again. Idle threats, friends. He certainly will act like that again. And when he does, if you think I don't fully intend to present him with this note, you'd be dead wrong.

I love that kid. I do not love his quick temper so much but if he can just learn to harness his atatood, that kid is going places.