Irreconcilables

There are things I'm unable to reconcile.

Around the world hundreds millions of people live in the most wretched of conditions. I surfed to do some fact checking and found a UN report from 2003 that said 25,000 people in the world die each day of hunger. Somewhere, millions of people live in constant fear of violence and are forced to choose between being monsters in order to survive, or die.

Living with this knowledge requires some interesting machinations. One is to not think about it. There are various ways to 'not think about' it: literally not allow it to cross one's mind, or if it does, to keep it firmly in the realm of abstraction, like watching an engaging movie, or reading a heartrending book.

Other people can't casually dismiss inequity and resort to other means to rationalize. We quote Jesus and say there will be poor always. We believe that we have the privilege of our security because we lived well in a prior life, as a matter of luck, or because of some virtue we possess in this life. If we believe that god rewards good behavior, then the converse is that he punishes bad; therefore people who are in bad circumstances must have done something bad. Some people are just glad that it's someone else, not them, and choose to not question further.

There is a schism between the given that everyone deserves to have enough good food to eat, warm dry shelter, clean water, and the fact that the majority of the world's population wants for these things. I really cannot enjoy my comfort the way I would if I knew that a decent standard of living was accessible to all. This is a discrepancy I just can't reconcile, yet must live with.

The worst has happened to my friend Toni. She got the news Thursday afternoon, and it was conveyed to me through our mutual friend, Marti Friday evening.

I've known them since 1982. They were part of a circle of friends I met in my climbing days, through my then boyfriend Charlie (When we broke up, by default, I got the friends. I feel grateful for that.). At the time I'd thought this would be my community forever. Yet so much of our lives were in flux...for me relationships came and went until I met Gary in 1989, but I stayed in touch with this group, mainly through the women. We went to each other's weddings: Kathy & Michael and Toni & Greg the same year, after years of co-habitation, then Marti & Sam. Mindy & Steve had already been married a few years when I came into the mix. We staggered the births of our children, which was foolish, because it meant we weren't much support to each other. When Mindy and Steve had Alec, I had no idea what it meant to be a new mother and wouldn't for another 13 years. By the time Toni and Greg had their son, Alec was nearly 2 and at a stage that wasn't compatible with an infant. It was years later before Marti and Sam had their son, and I was the very last to have children. I benefited, I think, because these women had grown wise in what it meant to have a newborn, and able to be tender to me in a way I had not been with them. They went through their early mothering years in relative isolation.

Parenthood changed the things we did and the amount of time we spent together. Toni and her now ex-husband Greg moved 2 hours up the Columbia River Gorge 17 or 18 years ago when their children were 6 and 3. I moved on to other climbing and skiing circles, eventually ending up with Gary. Marti and I started a tradition of breakfast every Friday morning, which endured until I moved to St. Louis. We resumed when I returned 5 years later, modifying it to every-other week, and to accommodate the restrictions of Gary's lost job. The women of the group would sporadically see each other. We've made an effort to meet regularly for dinner, every other month.

I was not a part of an extended circle of adults that was a constant in the lives of any of these children, now grown. I wasn't a surrogate parent to these children. Greg and Toni formed friendships in the small community they moved to, where their two children went to school; did these friendships serve the function of extended family?

In The Oregonian this morning:

A man's body was found near railroad tracks west of (a city) on Thursday, officials said Friday.Union Pacific Railroad workers on a westbound train spotted the body at about 10:15 a.m., said a detective of the County Emergency Services in a news release. The Sheriff's Office deputies located the body of a white male, 20 to 30 years old, lying close to the tracks in an isolated area west of the city near the Columbia River. An autopsy is scheduled for Friday, the detective said. The man's identity is being withheld pending notification of his family.

The next of kin have been notified. They have the notes. The man is the son of my friends Greg and Toni, dead by his own hand on his 24th birthday.

I'm looking at the weather. It's not quite 7 am, and we had freezing rain yesterday. The main highway along the gorge was closed yesterday due to 'extreme icy conditions'. The state route on the other side of the river is open. It's 26 degrees and I'm not sure I can get up my driveway. In a little while I'll call Marti and see what she thinks about our ability to get down our hill (she lives up on the ridge too, about 9 miles east of me. She has 4wd, and we were going to take her car, assuming I can even get to her house). Our plan is to go, to take some simple appetizer food the family can set out for people who come to visit, make ourselves available for errands, to abide.

This situation exposes how far we've allowed our intimacy to drift. I realize I don't know the things an intimate should know. If I had been part of the extended family circle that raised their David, there would be no question. I would have received the news nearly the moment they did, and I would probably be there right now. But I don't even know if they have people there with that kind of familial urgency, amongst their friends and neighbors in that town. If they do, have they already been inundated with food, and with people? I've known Toni nearly 30 years, and Marti has known her longer. But David I hardly knew at all as a young adult.

I'm also dismayed with how easily I slip into considering this tragedy with the same rationalization I use to stay sane when I put food in my mouth while knowing there are hundreds of millions of people who have none. It's like a gravitational pull, the inclination to stay remote. I'm caught between two gravitational pulls, the one of friendship which has cooled from lack of attention, leaving me vulnerable to the pull of distance.

But at this very moment, as I sit here, with my sons safe downstairs (for how long? The death of David merely underscores the fragility of safety), my friends are shattered under the weight of loss that squeezes the air out of their lungs. They've entered a new universe, a new gravitational field, which is organized around their son's suicide. Its field is relentless, and crushing. Every breath they take pulls it in. Every exhale is a sob, even when they're cried out.

Around the world a mother cries over her hungry, dying child. I try to not think about it as I prepare the meal for my family. It's discomfiting to recognize the same impulse to use the same strategy as I think of my friends 80 miles away.

I'm not a stranger to grief. I do not want to think of myself as someone who runs and hides when someone is devastated, the ways strangers to grief often might. This is grief of a different order, though, than losing my sister.

While searching for Mrs. Spit's post on Abiding I found a post on Glow In the Woods on how to support a babylost mother. While searching Mrs. Spit's site I also found this:

If grief is not the same, I find myself wondering, to what extent can others participate in our grief, and to what extent do we grieve only on our own? And how do we share and recognize the grief of others? How do I recognize the sadness of friends, of family, of our church? I am thankful that others miss Gabriel, I am thankful that he was a child of a greater community of friends and believers, not merely an accomplishment of mine and Mr. Spit's. But how does this actually play out in real life. What does it mean to grieve as a community or a family? Is it an act we do separately, while in the same space, or is it something that builds and ties and binds us to one another, and helps us each become more fully human?

How do I respect the grief of others, at their tragedies, and abide with them in their sorrow. To join in the place of grieving and give my physical presence to them, so that I may be with them as they grieve. --Mrs. Spit

These thoughts will go with me, as we go to be with our friend.

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The roads are still closed, and very bad where Toni lives. The weather is supposed to begin to warm today. Perhaps the roads will be safe Monday. Marti can't take any more days off work; she maxed her time off when she was moving her parents from Idaho. I'll go by myself, tomorrow.

Tethered

"...while he moved forward violently, he was immobile, he was hurtling round a fixed point." Ian McEwan, the child in time

I dreamt the other night that I was with my SIL. We were preparing food to take to a gathering. A most beautiful, exultant song was playing and my very being pulsed to it. Every atom of me throbbed. And then my SIL's voice cut through: "I'm glad you are having such a good time, but do you think you could (do such and such instead)..." Instantly the music ground to a halt, like one of those special effects like a turntable needle scraping along a vinyl record.

I blinked and looked at her. Her face was bland as her words. Yet the music had stopped, it had been sucked right out of the room. I didn't feel badly, though I understood I was meant to. Instead I was interested and curious, and that's what I woke with. I laid there in that quasi-awake, quasi-asleep place and pondered a bit over that.

I was with the mechanics of the maneuver, and the wonder of my response to it. In thinking about what she said I considered the contrast between the words and the tone. She clearly was not glad at my happiness, and instead experienced it either as an inconvenience to herself, or something that was a selfish indulgence on my part at her expense. It's not an uncommon way of expressing displeasure...I may use this device sometimes myself when I'm trying to get the kids out the door and they're absorbed in something else. Present in the dream interaction was a strong sense of unspoken 'rules'. I was to know she was unhappy, but though I was to change my behavior, I was not to let on that I knew she was unhappy. I was to register her remark as an innocuous observation, even as I was to do something to satisfy her, but not let on that she'd been dissatisfied.

Again, that's a dynamic that's familiar. I've seen it in action all my life; it's a shaming device...meant to influence the behavior of someone else. All my life I have responded to it with shame--experienced it as a stinging. In the dream I did not, and as I lay there I considered that.

Then there was the matter of the melody. It kept playing in my head too, a lilting, cajun-type fiddle lead. I enjoyed just listening to it and recapturing the feeling it evoked. It was tantalizingly familiar, and then it came to me. Though altered to a cajun arrangement, the intervals were that of the old Tommy James song, "Dragging the Line": "Loving a free and feeling spirit, hugging a tree when you get near it, digging the snow and the rain and the bright sunshine...dragging the line". Funny, how the lyric, "Dragging the line" sounds more like a dirge than an affirmation of freedom. A paradox.

I've been having dreams that seem to have a theme of a glass ceiling. In one I had an aspiration to go high, to a high point of a city. But the vehicle I chose, a taxi and driver, took me low. In another, I'm a Transformer, blue, soaring, powerful. And I'm hamstrung by power lines. I walk along a path I think is going to a destination, and at the last moment it turns, back toward where I came from.

This week my cousin Sheri pulled the Ace of Cups Tarot card on her blog, Wild Women of the Universe. She actually pulled it twice. It's a card of abundance, of transcendent joy. And yet I feel myself pressed against this invisible barrier. And I experience light being bent to conform to some sort of gravitational pull I don't understand.

It was this gravity I wanted to transcend the other night when Scott was so distraught. I suspect he needed me to transcend it too, to show him convincingly that his well-being could come from another avenue than my anger with his brother. Somehow, though, I found myself pressed against curved glass, my movements directed on a well-circumscribed path, away from the transcendence I sought for both of us. I could not get through to the other side.

Since Sheri had already drawn the Ace of Cups this week, she pulled another for clarity, and got The Moon, reversed. She said it's a card of "deeper understandings of the forces at work", the hidden being revealed through the channels of intuition.

I long for this.

Does perfect bewilderment and frustration count? (or, No God Moments For Me) Updated Below

Just in case it (perfect bewilderment and frustration) doesn't (count), I won't post the Perfect Moment Mondays emblem.

I'm assuming the headache is menopausal. The hot flashes are a clue. Some days I just wake up with a headache that I'm resigned to having in the background all day. Now I'm waking in the night with the headache and the desperate sensation of too much heat. I remove the blanket and sheet, wait for the headache to subside enough to sleep again, and then wake shortly after, cold.

So this morning was a resigned-to-a-headache morning, on the same day that Gary's going down to the bay area to meet a guy he's hoping to finalize employment with. I took him to the airport about 11:30 and returned home.

Scott and Connor have reached a revolting development in their relationship. They are two unstable elements and under certain conditions come together with volatility (sudden explosions) and unpleasant byproducts (noise, name-calling). They're like ammonia and chlorine bleach and once they get going it's as impossible to separate the byproducts back into their component atoms. This makes it very difficult to find a peaceful resolution to the various conflicts that sprout.

A typical interaction: something happens, usually the initiating event is missed by one of the adults. Sometimes they're playing and one of them gets hurt. Sometimes Scott is being hyperactive, which annoys Connor. Sometimes Scott says something innocent and Connor responds with uncalled-for scorn. Whichever adult is present will usually start with whoever's behavior is obvious, "Connor, keep your hands to yourself!" Scott: "YEAH, Connor!" Connor: "Shut up, you big fatso!" Scott: "Yeah, well you're a.....!" And while the adult is trying to put a stop to that the child not being addressed in that particular moment is making faces at the other one behind the adult's back so that the child being addressed is becoming more inflamed, setting off the nuclear chain once more. Jesus, sometimes I hate children.

Scott was hyperactive tonight and went downstairs. I heard Connor saying, "Stop, Scott...Just stop, would you? Would you quit, I'm getting really mad at you!" I went downstairs to tell Scott it was time to come upstairs if he couldn't be in the same room peacefully with Connor, but not before Connor called him an 'asshole' and "hurt my feelings."

The really curious thing about this was the irrationality. Even by a kid's standards of behavior this was irrational. Scott's fury stemmed from the fact that I'd gone to get him with a severe affect; he felt I was angry with him and not his brother. Repeatedly he demanded that I get angry and direct that anger at Connor. And the more I wasn't doing it the angrier he got.

This is the thing about kids that stumps me. There was no way I could reach him to explain (though I tried) that not only can I not get angry at will, and at the behest of someone else, but it had sure sounded like Connor had asked him nicely enough to stop. He only got angrier.

The fury and tantrum went on long enough that I had time to remember a sequence that my cousin Lori described in an episode of her own child's anger:

1. Calm, center, open. Breathe, and be aware of my breathing.
2. Listen. Let her do most of the talking.
3. Assess. What is she really saying or asking?
4. Trade places. What might this look like, feel like, to her?
5. Abide. Give her space to feel her feelings.
6. Speak. Equal parts head and heart

Similarly I remembered a post by Mary P. Jones about difficult moments with children called "The God Moment"

I at least thought about being mindful in this tricky parenting moment. It was hard to listen above my own clamor for this to all just go away: oh, my aching head. What the hell do I do with his demand that I feel something I didn't feel? I talked to him about understanding that it had felt unfair to him that I had seemed angry with him when I came to get him, and that he felt Connor deserved my anger too. I told him that I knew it must feel terrible inside his body. I told him I knew how awful it felt to be so angry and feel it trapped inside his skin. But he could not release that demand and I could not get to the place inside where I could find the words to help him release it. (Did I fail in being empathetic? I was sincere, I do know it feels awful, but how much of this empathy was just an effort to get him to shut up? Could he sense it?) He wanted to go talk with Connor, and he wanted nothing less than my righteous indignation on his behalf.

Since he kept pressing and no inspiration came from God I had to be explicit. I looked him in the eye and said with finality "I can't be angry on demand. And I'm not angry with Connor." {anguished and angry wailing} "Now we can go downstairs and talk to him, but we have to have rules. I'll explain the rules to him too. You have to take turns, you can't shout at each other, and you can't call each other names."

I took down from the bulletin board his classroom's template for conflict resolution and we went downstairs after I briefed Connor on The Rules. I let Scott start, and another testament to kid irrationality was that his and Connor's versions of what happened pretty much matched up: Scott wanted to roughhouse with Connor; Connor said no because he figured it would lead to trouble; Scott started taunting and making fun of him to try to goad him into tackling him. On some level he knew that he had provoked this particular fight. Clearly the heart of this was between Scott and me, not Scott and Connor.

A bright spot in all this was that the conflict resolution model kept the discussion fairly even and they responded when I'd assert The Rules if they started to get heated. When I asked Scott to repeat back what Connor had said he objected on reasonable grounds: Connor was first supposed to repeat back what Scott had said. So apparently this conflict resolution stuff they're practicing in school is sinking in, at least the procedural stuff. Maybe there's hope.

And I guess that has to be enough of a God moment for tonight. We went upstairs and had a relatively peaceful dinner.

An hour later Scott wanted a bath, and me to read to him while he was in the tub. When I came in with the book he glared at me and said, "I'm still mad at you and I still want you to get mad at Connor!"

Perfectly tough night.

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Update 12/7/09

Thinking about Mrs. Spit's comment to the original post made me think some more about last night, and the curious nature of Scott's and my conflict.

In retrospect, it was like a Zen koan, and I may have been on the right track, but somehow didn't go far enough. I certainly can't say I'm there today. I think the God Moment I'd like to have realized is the one Mary and Lavender wrote about where the conflict dissolved in the meeting of the two hearts. This would have been infinitely more satisfactory to me, and I suspect to Scott, too. In fact, Scott was counting on me to find a way to resolve us into that uniting of our hearts.

To his mind the only way he could get there was if I was angry at Connor. Where I was on the right track was in knowing that there had to be something deeper Scott was yearning for. I knew he longed to know that I felt his pain, he wanted to feel connected to me. He was telling me that his sense of fairness demanded that I be angry with Connor. For him this was the only way union could be achieved.

And I was stuck on the fact that I did not feel angry with Connor, and that in this case Scott had provoked Connor. So even if I could somehow jinn up the feelings at will, they wouldn't have been truthful. And for the life of me I could not find the way between, where I could give him the feeling that he needed, without walking through a door that felt fraudulent to me.

And I suppose one of the barriers to resolution for me was my frustration with my helplessness in resolving his need, his demand, with reality. And because I was frustrated I was irritated and I could not connect with my compassion for him. So even though I had a sense that it wasn't so much my anger with Connor he wanted, but my compassion, my own desire that this strange paradoxical puzzle go away seemed to motivate my words. The words were correct, but the feeling beneath them was not deep enough.

How do I get beyond that barrier of my own desire that a conflict end for the sake of my own comfort?

Shift

I've just passed my blogoversary, the second one, on November 26. And I realize that in the past couple of weeks, the premise of my blog has shifted.

I began with a decision before me that I decided to blog my way through. My decision was whether or not to stay in a marriage for the sake of staying married.

This was a more complicated path than I realized at the beginning. There were a number of tasks I needed to work my way through first.

One was to get some clarity on whether or not the unhappiness in our marriage was due to some fault in me. I needed to satisfy myself as to whether I was generous enough, reacting too much, expecting too much. Could I change something in myself in order to remain in this marriage in a way that made a generative atmosphere for my sons?

I also needed to know if staying, or leaving, would do more harm to my boys.

I needed lots of time, and thousands of pages of writing to really look at those questions.

My cousin Sheri over at Wild Women of the Universe pulled The Star as the Tarot card for Thursday. She pulled it for another of her commenters, Quiet Dreams, but it could have been for me as well:

The renewal indicated with The Star card is one of re-discovering who you REALLY are, dropping any facades or roles that you have been filling and carefully shedding the parts of you that now seem "fake" or "put on." It's not that you were intentionally doing this to fool people (even though at times you may have even fooled yourself -- temporarily), it was more a function of upbringing, old beliefs and survival.

The reflections of my past two years have revealed the function of "upbringing, old beliefs, and survival." In responding, Quiet Dreams could also have been speaking for me:

Definitely. In the house I grew up in, there were very strict ideas about what it meant to be "good." I have been learning to expand my definitions for a while now and learn that those "survival" days are over.

This blog has officially changed from being about a decision whether or not to divorce, to a blog about the process of divorce.

My vision for the process:

We can do it amicably. We can do it without lawyers so we can minimize the hit to our resources.

The boys remain in their house, with Gary and I rotating in and out on a weekly shared-custody schedule. Hopefully we can be amicable enough that we can buy or rent another place and share that.

I'll need to find work. The nature of, the hours of, are yet to be determined.

It's strange to be in this latency period, where the decision has been made and the basics agreed to, but its implementation is still ahead.

I've been thinking a lot about a movie that I watched with the boys over Thanksgiving, called "Rudy". It's based on a true story, and though not all the movie elements hew to the factual history of this man, the essentials do. From childhood he had a dream of playing football for Notre Dame, even though he was small and light. His grades weren't great in high school, certainly not for admission to Notre Dame. Four years after graduating from high school he's working in the steel mill his father works in when his best friend is killed. This galvanizes him to live his dream and he leaves for South Bend Indiana after the funeral. The strength of his desire persuades a priest to admit him to Holy Cross, the junior college in the same town. If he has the grades, maybe he can transfer to Notre Dame. Over 2 years he applies 3 times and isn't accepted. He discovers he has dyslexia, which was the cause of his poor grades in high school. On his fourth try he is accepted, and then bends himself to the task of being a 'walk-on' player for the football team. For two years his function on the team is to be a stand-in for opposing teams to help get the players ready. Finally, for the last home game of his senior year he is allowed to dress with the team, and is even put on the field for a play.

I've wondered for the past week or since watching the movie at what sustained Rudy's desire for all those years and set-backs. What would keep him connected to that reality he finally realized? (Even though in truth he had to scale it back: his dream had been bigger. He'd wanted to be an active playing member of the team. However, there is no denying that what he achieved is impressive indeed--he was on the team for 2 years, in addition to being a graduate from Notre Dame.)

He had a Star that he followed and kept him connected to a reality that everyone, even his own family, told him was impossible to achieve.

I have a Star too. Mine is less clearly defined than Rudy's, but I think, like him, has been guiding me since childhood.

Another perfect moment and I can't wait until next week to tell it

Last night I sent an email to Scott's teacher Rob to see if he wanted any help from me today. It wasn't the most sincere offer, since I was going to be helping out at Connor's school too, and it's the first day they're back at school after a week long break, y'know?

So it wasn't the most perfect moment when I found the reply, "Sure."

Sigh. So that meant dropping Scott, driving 10 minutes back to the dojo to open, writing for about a half hour, then driving back to the school.

Rob had an activity in mind. First, he passed out the master list for each child--the results of the goal-setting conference just prior to the Thanksgiving break. There is an "Independence" goal, a "Community" goal, and a "Fluency" goal. The fluency goals seem to correspond with the traditional academic-type skills, such as mathematics. First the kids were asked to recopy their fluency goal from Rob's master sheet onto their own worksheet.

I walked around the room and saw all kinds of fluency goals. Some children wanted to work on their math with a goal of getting to do middle-school math. Some wanted to publish stories. Some wanted to improve their typing.

Once the copying into their own handwriting was done, Rob numbered the children 'ones' and 'twos' and had the 'ones' sit on the table facing out while the 'twos' stood and faced them. They were to take about 30 seconds and share their goal with each other, with two tasks in mind. They were to notice if the other person's goal was similar to theirs, and write it down in a space they had on their worksheet. They were also to let the other person know if they thought they might have skills that would help the other person meet their objective. There was a place on the worksheet for that too. Then the 'twos' were to move on to the next sitting person. One sitting girl raised her hand: "How will I know if there's someone who's sitting who can help me or has a similar goal?" "Good question. The sitting people will have a chance later to talk to each other, as will the standing."

Rob carefully structured the process, telling them when it was time for the standing children to move on. Presently everyone had spoken to each other. A number of names had appeared on their worksheets--people with similar goals; people who had skills who could help others meet their goals. When it was time for the sitting group and the standing group to share amongst themselves Rob told them they would have to be self-directed. He pulled back and let the kids structure this themselves. It was very orderly, and fairly quiet.

As they were doing this Rob was writing on the board. He had them close their eyes and imagine themselves beginning work on the goal on their page. He wanted them to picture what this process would look like...how it would sound...what it would feel like. When it was time for them to open their eyes he had them write it down on the worksheet--how it would look, sound, feel. I walked around the room looking at what children were writing and drawing. One boy's writing I couldn't quite read and so I asked him. He'd written, "I feel frustrated".

Rob picked right up on this. He said, "As some of you are imagining working on your goals you may find you feel sad, or mad. When that happens, see if you can imagine what you might do to help those feelings. Maybe that might mean imagining yourself in a quiet place. Maybe it means going to one of the people whose names you have on the list as resources. And if you don't have a name under resources, I want you to put one. Mine. R-O-B. I'm a resource for you too."

I remembered back when we went to Scott's IEP meeting. I'd worried because I saw how intensively this classroom is based on reading: when the kids come in there are instructions on the board for them to read and follow. I'd worried that Scott was being left behind, left out. I was afraid that there might be a nice lofty goal that the younger children ask the older ones for help, that doesn't happen in practice. I was afraid the older children might scorn the younger for not knowing what to do. I feared Scott wouldn't understand the algorithm Rob had diagrammed on the board for getting help. I was afraid he'd be adrift. I'd confided this fear, and Rob had reassured me that this was a skill that took time to develop, identifying resources and using them, and that he did not leave this skill up to chance.

Today I saw that Rob was true to his word. Every step today was laying down a fundamental of learning, of learning-to-learn. The goals from conferencing weren't just an abstraction, they were anchored not just in today's tasks, but also in the mind's eye. Not only was each child being asked to focus on what they'd already stated was a goal of theirs, with their parents, but they were learning how to find resources to help them accomplish them.

I am so damned impressed.

Perfect moments Monday--Building a paper jet engine

Scott's latest obsession is acid, and what he calls, "stomach acid". He wants to know if stomach acid can 'eat' metal, indeed if it could 'eat' a person! He asked if we could go online and find any video of something being dissolved in acid.

It was more difficult than one would think. I had trouble coming up with narrowly defined-enough search terms. I found lots of definitions of 'acid' that were too complicated for me to understand, let alone explain to him: things about substances that give up an extra hydrogen, or raise the pH of a substance. And I found way too much stuff about LSD. But our search wasn't in vain. Presently we found on youtube a series called "Do Try This At Home". Mr. G has a series of science experiments that can be done with ordinary household items.

Scott wanted to try some immediately, but I was making a dish ahead for Thanksgiving. The computer is in the kitchen, but I got so busy with my task that I didn't notice him for a while. When I looked up again he'd gotten a piece of paper, a scissors, and a lighter. ("Hey! Where did you find that?!" "In Dad's office.") They were laid out just the way Mr. G had them in the video. He was absorbed in following along the step-by-step instructions on the screen. He would let the video run, pause it, and fold the paper. It appeared he'd gotten to a fairly advanced stage of folding when he got stuck. I was so impressed with this I decided to help him.

He wanted to start again, and so went and got another piece of paper. I flattened out the one he'd had and used it. He really had finished about 90% of it, and the part where he'd gotten stuck was tricky for me too. It was kind of hard to see, but there was a place where two flaps were tucked into two pockets made by a certain sequence of folds.

By golly, we inflated the little dirigibles and filled them with fumes from the lighter, then lit them and pop! They shot across the room! Way cool.

The perfection for me is in seeing his curiosity, his initiative, his patience and perseverance in pursuing this project. "I'm a scientist, Mom!"

Definitely a Little Professor.

Addendum to Thankful (breastfeeding ment)

I was appreciating the comments in response in my post below, and I had a bit more clarity about the dilemma I faced then.

At 12 weeks my baby was showing incredible heart. He was clinging by his little fingernails--barely holding on going 9 hour stretches without nursing, to be relieved when I came to pick him up. Then he'd nurse through the night. This was his solution, and it must have cost him in plenty of discomfort, yet he did not give in and take the bottle.

Those who said I should withhold nursing and present only a bottle seemed oblivious to his courage. He must have already been at the brink; anyone who would expect his mother to be the one to shred his last bit of resistance and sweep him over the edge had no idea what a betrayal this would be.

I think there are many unseen moments of courage around us each day--people who are expected to do the impossible and are casually despised when they cannot. I think about the courage it takes for people who work three jobs and find themselves dismissed as 'lazy' when they use food stamps in a check-out. It's so easy to gloss over what it takes for someone to do as they do. Sometimes it's all too easy to be heartless and to not even realize it.

Thankful (breastfeeding mentioned)

Pam, of Portland's LaLeche League, this is for you.

Connor, my oldest, was 10 weeks old and I was beginning to panic. In two weeks I was going to have to return to work, and he was not taking a bottle.

I'd waited to introduce the bottle until he was about 6 weeks old, heeding the advice about nipple confusion. I'd followed the tips of taking a walk and having Gary give him a bottle in my absence. The theory was that if I was anywhere near he'd be able to smell my presence and the bottle would be rejected.

Gary tried, my MIL tried, my friend Monica tried, a whole host of friends tried. Walking past the house I could hear him wailing.

I threw prevailing wisdom to the winds and tried myself. Nope.

At 11 weeks I felt compelled to confess to the woman I'd lined up for day care. She was understanding; said her own child had refused the bottle.

I'd cut my work schedule way back. I arranged it so I would work a two day stretch, have three days off, then work four in a row, then back to two days. This meant working every other weekend when Gary could be the caregiver. Therefore, Connor would only be in daycare two days a week.

I think I believed a miracle would occur and he'd be feeding from a bottle before he was 12 weeks old.

He didn't.

My first day back at work he woke in a particularly smiley mood. It just about killed me when I turned him over to Petra. When I called a few hours later my heart sank to hear his cries in the background. She said she was trying to work with him. I called an hour later and she said that wrapped in my shirt he'd taken a full bottle. I rejoiced and relaxed.

He never took a bottle again.

At week 8 Petra told me she couldn't take it any more. Honestly, I couldn't either. He was going 9 hours without food, sometimes longer if he didn't happen to be hungry just before I took him to her house.

I went to my bosses and told them I had a problem. I told them I'd lost my day care and why, and said that while he wasn't feeding from a bottle I'd probably lose any other day care as well. I asked for another month, maybe two, off until he was old enough that he could take my milk from a cup. They said they could not give me any more time. They implied that if I withheld nursing long enough he'd "figure it out."

This left me two options. Force him to take a bottle by withholding nursing long enough, or quit my job. I'd worked for this group for 17 years.

Just as my parents had not lived in a cultural context that made it possible to co-sleep with their infant, or feed on demand, it seemed inconceivable to me to give up thousands of dollars of income because my baby wouldn't accept anything but my breast. At the time I was the sole source of income and insurance benefits for our family, because Gary was in business for himself. His business was supporting itself, but I was paying the mortgage, and the bills. Losing my income meant living out of our savings, and it meant forfeiting the matching benefit my company would pay into my retirement: the contract stated I had to be working until December 30 to receive the match. It was late November, so I was missing the match by about 6 weeks.

There was nothing in my experience that would make that course of action make sense, but neither could I withhold from my baby what he loved so much. He was already going without eating for nine hours straight, and then when I come for him I'm to deny him? I was anguished, and talked to my Laleche leader, Pam.

She mused, "It's funny how there's all kind of support for taking out a loan for a house, or for a car, but we never think of taking a loan for a baby."

Those simple words provided the perspective I needed. I knew that my baby was not going to have to be the one to give because he was the weakest link in the chain. What was important was to honor his very impressive will, not overpower it. I went in to work the next day and gave notice.

It still makes me weak in the knees to think of how close I came to doing what would have broken my child's heart, and would have done great damage to my vulnerable conception of myself as a mother.

I'll be forever thankful for those chance words at just the right time that gave me the support I needed to make the right choice.

Thank you, Pam.

Karl and Ellie

Six months after its release, I finally saw the movie "Up". It was part of a 10-picture series that our local theater runs as a benefit for our schools. The boys and Gary had seen it closer to its release date, and confidently predicted I'd like it.

"Will I cry?"

"Yeah, probably."

I was crying in the first 10 minutes. So quickly, and deftly, the movie's makers sketched in the essential details: a shy, retiring, idealistic boy with a longing for adventure finding his kindred spirit in a girl who appears to be his opposite: effusive, expansive, enthusiastic. She saw something in him she liked and didn't hesitate in declaring it. Her dream was big...to adventure, to plant her clubhouse at the brink of Paradise Falls in Venezuela. The sunshine of her love warms him and he blooms. At the church where they marry, volumes are implied by who comes. Her side of the sanctuary is filled with lively, vital, joyous souls; his side is largely vacant, with a few dour, dressed-in-black, severe looking people.

The most touching part of this movie is the way their love is communicated as they age, as is the poignancy when she dies and leaves him alone. You feel the loss keenly; the vacancy in this man's soul as he continues to live after the center of his life is gone.

His love for her inspires a big adventure--to fulfill her dream. And it is that quest which brings him in alignment with the possibility of more love, and a fullness he'd not imagined was possible for himself. The movie left me sobbing, because it is the most beautiful film I've ever seen.

Gary wants to show this film at Christmas. We're doing Christmas at my house again this year. My parents are driving up with my brother, my niece will fly up from Southern California, my father-in-law will drive down from the foothills of the Washington Cascades (with his unruly Vizsla hound Katie to be terrorized by my demonic cat), and my MIL who lives locally, will be here.

I'd hoped to not have to go through another hosting holiday of pretending. Two years ago the prospect filled me with despair. This year is different, because I know it is the last.

"Up" is a curious choice of a family Christmas movie, in a way. Gary's parents are divorced and have been since he was 8. Gary's dad has since been married three times. His last marriage, which was in the same year as Gary's and mine, ended within that year. Katie-the-hound is the legacy of that; she is the object of his affections now. Gary's mother never remarried, or as far as I know, even had any romantic relationships with a man. My parents have been married for over 50 years. I suspect what has held their marriage together is my father's super-ego sense of duty: you stay married because you're supposed to. You love because you're supposed to, through will-power. I can't tolerate the presence of them together for very long; there is such tension, disappointment, latent hostility radiating from them. The love portrayed in this film is very different from will-power love. The love in this film warms everyone around. It's a very simple love, and its light reveals the holes in the fabric of Gary's and my marriage.

I can use it as a parable, as a tangible. One knows authenticity when one sees it. If my sons aren't consciously asking themselves, I'm sure they feel the contrast between the warmth created between this couple, and the atmosphere between their parents. It can be a jumping off point: We have failed to create this. We have failed at developing what it takes to create this, and it is time to stop pretending. It is a failure within us (and creates a toxic atmosphere. You deserve so much better--I probably won’t say this last bit because it implies they are somehow responsible. I want to avoid that.).

Gary walked by me last night, after we'd been home a while, to say, "You deserve to have that kind of love." I said, "So do you."

Was it an unidealized love? Some might point out that you never were shown them quarreling. Isn't that idealized?

A long time ago I read Harville Hendrix's book, "Getting the Love You Want". He posed the theory of the Imago in relationships. Growing up has left injuries, and the issues that we need to heal draw us to the person who can call them forth for healing. That's where the spark of attraction lies. The introvert is beguiled by the extrovert's ability to express himself, the ease with which he makes decisions. The introvert calls to the extrovert's latent deep, reflective side. At the beginning they seem perfectly complementary, perfect for each other. It is later that disillusionment sets in, and the introvert wonders what she ever saw in the loud-mouthed shallow person she's married to. The introvert seems moody, distant, judgmental to the extrovert. When we are at first bewitched by attraction, magical thinking makes us forget that 'complementary' may involve opposition. Opposition threatens unity.

The potential for true growth, both individual, and as a couple, lies in reconciling this conflict.


If we can't have perfect unity we might attempt to cheat in order to get it We might cheat by attempting to deny our own desires, or by denying the Other's. We try to force unity by closing our eyes to any feelings that seem to threaten unity. And this is not sustainable.

We can't expect to have perfect, unbroken unity. It doesn't happen in this world. But the next best thing I think is actually better than unbroken unity. And that is the mechanism of repair, the glue of reconciliation.

Mrs. Spit wrote a beautiful post some weeks ago about loss, about loss breaking us, and about healing. She spoke of holding a fragile glass in her hand, of seeing where the colors run together, tracing the seams. Her post is called, Art Glass. The glass, the globe, she was describing, is grief, the more beautiful for its "fault lines". Can relationship, and conflict also be the stuff of Art Glass--unity-shattered a kind of loss, but the healing generating a beauty that far surpasses unblemished wholeness?

Perhaps this is what Karl and Ellie had, and this is what kept the light shining within their cracked and imperfect, unidealized love. The movie's makers didn't show us the how, but we can assume they had conflict because of their very different backgrounds. And the love that radiated from them didn't have any taint of unwilling surrender--peace-at-any-price.

Gary and I have never found a way to reconcile our styles. I see now that marriage to him was the logical outcome of where I came from. I came from a family where unity was prized, which meant that any feelings that ran against that unity were seen as threatening and were expected to be suppressed. Failure to self-suppress would result in someone else suppressing them, through shame, or punishment. Family unity was even more important than Telling the Truth.
The glass is not permitted to break, because there is no faith in healing. That would make sense, since the skills for healing were never developed.

Marrying Gary merely perpetuated that pattern.

Perfect Moment Monday--Ho Ho Ho (with apologies to Bob Dylan fans)

Lori's Perfect Moments Monday post had me laughing vicariously, and then reminded me of my own Perfect Moment.

Prelude:

Years ago, when Gary and I had been married a few years but hadn't had kids yet we went on a ski trip to the Tetons. One of our compatriots, Rich, had family who had a cabin outside of Driggs, Idaho. His cousin Peter was living there and so we invaded for about a week. We'd ski hard during the day and come home to eat, drink, and listen to music. Peter was a huge Bob Dylan, as well as Van Morrison fan.

I don't remember who Dylan was paired with in the piece Peter put on for our listening experience. It may have been Tom Petty. It may have been Van Morrison. It may have been a duo; perhaps a trio. It was some unusual combination of vocal superstars, and some were already singing when abruptly Dylan's voice chimed in. It was so jarring, and so out of the character the other voices had established that it struck me as funny and I was doubled over with laughter. I don't know if I kicked off the general hysteria, or if it struck the others as funny too, but we were all laughing. Except Peter. He said, "I'll never forgive you for that", to me.

Fast-forward to the present:


Earlier in the week I'd heard a review of Bob Dylan's Christmas album, and it came up at dinner. The review had included a few cuts from the album and I too wondered if this was done farcically, or as a serious effort. I mean, Bob Dylan singing Christmas hymns ala Andy Williams? Seemed pretty cheesy to me. Gary was sure it was a serious effort. "Come on, Gary! Pa Rum Pa Pum Pum? ??"

The boys demanded that I look for it on Youtube and play it. I couldn't find it on Youtube, but I did find a sampling on AmazonUK. The first piece I played was "Do You Hear What I Hear?" As Dylan's voice faded into white noise on the high note, we totally lost it. We surrendered to laughter, tears rolling down our cheeks, feet stomping the floor. The boys were up and dancing, flinging themselves into the furniture. There was joy to be had at each of the 12 offerings, but was it what Dylan intended?

(By the way, I think the best of the songs was "Must Be Santa", mainly because of the inspired accordian playing by Los Lobos' David Hidalgo.)

Ho Ho Ho, Ha Ha Ha indeed.

Peter, if you're reading this, I realize I'll never be redeemed.

But it was indeed a perfect, priceless moment

Transitions, or word made flesh

One of the features of temperament is the ease with which one negotiates transitions.

I suppose progress can be defined as a sort of transition, or series of them.

I often find it interesting, and satisfying, to look back over the course of a week or month or more and see events that had appeared to be isolated at the time reveal a progression.

I've often noticed a beautiful symbiosis between my own inner growth and my quest to observe, define, and meet Scott's needs. It is no accident that when I returned to therapy with Sharon nearly 3 years ago after a 14 years' long absence, that it was with a dream about Scott. Periodically I've had to defend therapy to Gary, and the most compelling evidence in its favor has always been in front of me. I only saw it after we had the IEP meeting.

Years ago I had a dream. In it I'd planted seeds, and kept digging them up to see if they were sprouting roots yet.

Everything I have done in therapy, every insight I've received, has been what has enabled me to get Scott to where he most needs to be. Traditional education gauges progress by periodically pulling up the seeds and measuring the length of the root. Many seeds are hardy enough to tolerate this. My Scott is not. He requires lots of undisturbed time, and secret places for his learning to form. As do I.

I've been struck before by the correlation between meeting Scott's needs, and my own. It occurred to me to wonder if that was not true for Connor as well. Almost in answer academic issues begin to arise for him.

There is a transition he is being 'asked' to make; in fact, he's expected to have made it already. Rather than have assignments given to him, he is expected to take responsibility for them, reach out for them, pull them toward him. If he has performed poorly on a test, he is expected to seek out the instructor to find out what he did wrong, and to initiate its correction. He's expected to take responsibility for coordinating, planning, pacing himself in performing multiple tasks, over a stretch of time, and he is expected to keep track of this. The basis for all of this is writing in his planner, which he is very reluctant to do.

I notice there is a peculiar barrier that maybe other people aren't cognizant of. I sense a resistance between the world of idea, and transforming it into the world of action. It's a birth of sorts, making concepts manifest. It's like a wall for me, and I wonder if it's something similar he's up against but unable to articulate.

Tuesday night Gary and I went to see Margaret, the new practitioner we're going to have follow Scott's adhd. She has been focusing on our marriage, as it is the ground in which she'll be treating Scott. The first two times we saw her and the subject of divorce came up Gary shut down completely. I could feel his spirit withdraw. Tuesday night for the first time he engaged. She wants to see us again, just the two of us, one more time before she sees Scott again. She wants us each to bring a "bucket list" of things to do before we die, a sketch of what our lives will look like after divorce, and for me, a plan for employment.

It's big that Gary has transitioned from keeping his head in the sand and avoiding the subject, to signaling his willingness to be a cooperative partner in making this as gentle for the boys as possible.

I felt overwhelmed. I have a hard time with bucket lists, and trying to imagine various scenarios and what life will be like within each of them. I understand now that this is a similar reluctance that Connor is experiencing within new expectations at school. Divorce has been in the world of idea for me for years now, and in the world of intention for less than a year. I am experiencing the resistance I usually experience in taking something to the next level.

Qualified Warm-and-Fuzzy; update to Let-Him-Fail

REcap:

On Thursday I sent an email to Connor's principal asking:

Is it reasonable to ask that a teacher let me know before 8 weeks into a term that he is failing a subject

Is it reasonable to request that teachers post their assignments and test dates so I can help my child meet his obligations

Is "sink or swim", or "let him fail" an appropriate approach at this age where he's not intrinsically motivated by the topic and doesn't care if he fails?

That afternoon Connor got off his bus without an assignment he was supposed to have brought home the day before. "Get in the car, we're going to the school to get it." Wailing and gnashing of teeth.

When we walked into the building Ben, the principal, was at the top of the steps preparing to leave. But he seemed delighted to see us and spontaneously invited us into his office for "a chat". Connor went to get the assignment from his teacher while Ben and I got started.

He began to respond to my questions in the email, saying that "contractually, teachers are only required to report at midterm". He quickly added that he thought this was "lame." Before we could get to the substance of my questions Connor returned, and the rest of the conversation was between the two of them.

I like Ben. I think he gets kids, boys at least. I think his manner is respectful, and he is a person who can exude a "yes" vibe, even with a "no" message. I appreciated what he was telling Connor, even if Connor, with a 12-year-old's perspective, could not. Ben understood that much of what he was saying to Connor about choices he's making now affecting his future is lost on him. I liked the way he said it though.

When we left the school I felt better, but not entirely at ease. As I tried to pinpoint my disquiet I realized I'd come away without direct answers to my original three questions.

Subj; Thanks Ben

First:

The Future is definitely too precious to be trusted to the young! It is so hard to talk to a child from adult perspective, and knowing how child-perspective is receiving it ("blah blah blah"), but having to say it anyway. What a gulf.

Second:

I get the sense that "let him fail" isn't quite your philosophy?



Thank you again.
Excavator

Reply:

Excavator,

The future has to be trusted to the young. We just have to give them a whole lot of support before they take off and spread their wings. The hard part for me is knowing how many blah blah conversations it takes to turn into genuine understanding. It is so different for each kid, and that is great., but it can be tremendously frustrating when they don't see the answer that is right there in front of them. You guys are doing the right thing by keeping him going in the right direction. The alternative is uglier than the discomfort caused by pushing them.


Let them fall is not in my bag of tricks. I am for supporting them in being successful, while balancing that with gradual release of responsibility. Turning more and more over to Connor is the right thing to do, the question is how much support he needs before he takes over the show completely.


Thanks for working so hard to make Connor successful.

Ben

I was still bothered...does the "contractual agreement" mean that the answer to my first two questions is no, even if he said the "contractual agreement" is "lame?"

Subj: Recap
To: Ben Principal

I was thinking a little more about our conversation on Thursday, and just wanted to recap it a bit to make sure I'm understanding a few points correctly.

I think we're in agreement that time management is an emerging skill in middle school that is not fully in Connor's mastery yet. In addition to learning math, science, Spanish, he is learning how to keep track of his obligations and pace himself appropriately to do that. He is learning a process, as well as content.

I think the type of thinking this requires doesn't come naturally to him and he'd rather avoid it. I can sympathize, because organization is not my strength either...I can easily get muddled, overwhelmed, and lose track of things.

He's better at this skill than last year, but still requires assistance in managing it. I'm willing to give him that assistance (I don't particularly like it, because, as I said, it's a weakness of mine, but he needs to be properly supported as he develops this skill he'll need for the rest of his life).

To give him that assistance I've had to ask for the assistance of the teachers. I'm very aware that they have a lot of demands on their time, and I've had a feeling that they may feel my requests are excessive. This is why I asked you if it was reasonable to ask if they post their assignments and tests. Otherwise, I feel like I'm dealing with a moving target, if I don't have a clear idea of what Connor needs to do. You and I were just beginning to touch on this subject when Connor came in and the conversation shifted. But what I thought I heard you say is that contractually, the teachers are only required to report on a child's progress (or lack) at midterm. That tells me that it is not contractually “reasonable” to ask for more than this, or to ask you to ask them. Only being required to report at midterm leaves a pretty big gap and I’d hope that a teacher would want to let a parent know there’s a problem well before their contract mandates them to. This wasn’t the case with Ms. Spanish Teacher, or with Mr. Humanities Teacher last year.

My hope is that bolstered by this talk with you, I can work on the Connor end of things. He really is responsive to talks like this, and hopefully we have some momentum. It seems the key element is getting him to record his assignments in his planner. If I can get him to consistently do that piece that’ll help me with having solid knowledge of what he needs to do. And at least tools like Engrade give me a heads-up sooner if things aren’t going well. Hopefully I can build a strategy around this that will resolve this so I don’t need to come back to you.

Excavator

Reply:

Excavator,

I agree that Connor seems to be struggling with the organizational aspect of managing his homework without assistance. I think you have taken a good angle in making him check in with you. I think that holding a high standard for him is a good idea, and he will eventually either get it from practicing, or stop fighting it. I am not sure which is the case for Connor, but it is probably a touch of both, as it sounds like the routine is well established both at home and at school, but has not taken on significance to him without extrinsic motivation. In the end he will benefit from having to tackle this issue now, as it is a whole lot harder to have to deal with it in high school or college.

I understand your feelings on being in the dark about student performance. The contract states some base requirements. We have tried hard to go way above that to help communication with parents about grades. I get that you feel that communication did not work for you in the past. It is well within your right to request from a teacher an update on homework and performance in class. I think that at times it can seem like enabling behavior to put it on the teachers. I don't get that impression from what you are saying, just that you need to be on the same page so that you can make sure that Connor is following through on his end. We will try to do our best to support your efforts to help Connor.

I will be checking in with him weekly. I think that knowing we are all looking over his shoulder to make sure he is being successful will help increase his level of work completion. I would put some of this back on Connor. I would let him know what your expectations are and work with him to see what would feel for him like constructive support. He may come up with nothing new, but at least he would feel like you are listening to him. It is a tricky balance with kids his age, as they think a whole lot less of the importance of good study habits than they need to.


Regards,
Ben

Enabling?

I get that you feel that communication did not work for you in the past. It is well within your right to request from a teacher an update on homework and performance in class.

I do not feel that communication did not work for me in the past, it didn't.

I think that I understand now that the odd feeling that we're talking past each other means an indirect answer to my immediate questions. No, I am not reasonable in expecting that a teacher initiate discussion with me if my child isn't doing the work. I can ask for updates periodically, and so that is what I will need to do. Next week is parent-teacher conferences, and I'll see if we can agree on a process for doing this.

In effect, no, it is not reasonable to ask that the teachers post their tests and assignments consistently. They believe they shouldn't have to and that the child should just write it down in their planner each day. I can see the reasoning behind that, a sort of 'tough love' philosophy. So that makes my job a little harder, but I can work around it. Connor was failing Spanish before his teacher signed up with Engrade. Now that she's posting his performance I won't be surprised again. Besides posting performance results, oft-times there are hints of pending assignments. This isn't as solid an information base as teachers posting homework, but it's a source.

Most important is going to be focusing on Connor writing down his assignments each day in class. I've told him that this piece is the responsibility that is solely within his control, and I will be checking his planner each day. I will help him with figuring out what to do with that information--planning, coordinating, and pacing himself toward its accomplishment.

So hopefully we can work around the teacher reluctance with the tools we have. Hopefully I'll have a cooperative, if not altogether willing or enthusiastic partner in Connor.

And I'm glad that let him fail is not in Ben's "bag of tricks".

Let him fail? or, lest I get too complacent about Connor

One of the challenges of having my kids in school is that it requires a certain overarching organizational skill that I don't have. Since Connor has started middle school last year, my limitations in this area have been painfully evident.

Middle school requires much more initiative in taking responsibility than Connor exhibits at this point. His obligations go beyond doing the work, to tracking the work. This involves recording assignments and making a plan for pacing himself and prioritizing. Sometimes his weakness involves understanding what needs to be done. Sometimes it means he fails to record the assignment. Sometimes it means he fails to bring home progress notes and worksheets.

This has meant that I've needed to exert myself to get a meta-sense of what his assignments are so that I can backstop him. This also means I need help from the teachers, and I'm finding there's a curious reluctance.

I can't blame their reluctance I guess. I'm reluctant myself. As I said organization is not my strength and sometimes I feel bedeviled by trying to parse out the details of his obligations. And I'm not clear if it is reasonable that I ask that the teachers stay current with their blogs and posting their assignments. I've gotten the impression that they believe the child should be responsible for recording what they need to do in their planners and the blog is only a last resort (which means they may or may not post). However, I've noticed that Connor seems to do best in the classes where the teachers stay current and consistent in posting on the blogs.

This year is definitely better than last. He understands better what he needs to do. Technology helps as well. This year there's an internet innovation called Engrade where teachers record the results of his efforts. So I have a more real-time gauge of how he's doing. Last year in his social studies I had a miserable time with a teacher who didn't post his assignments or tests, didn't send home progress notes, and I was surprised by a failing grade at mid term. Then a lot of time was lost in his not responding to me about what Connor needed to do to bring this up. I was adamant this not happen again this year, since the same middle school team is in place. Engrade has helped me stay up-to-date with this particular classroom, and this particular teacher (who still doesn't post on the provided calendar the homework assignments and the dates of tests/quizzes).

Spanish was another problematic course last year, and so I introduced myself to his new Spanish teacher at Back to School Night in late September. She assured me that Connor had been focused and attentive in class. Then last week he brought home an access code that told me she was now recording on Engrade. I looked her up and saw that he's failing Spanish. It's 8 weeks into the trimester and I'm only finding out now.

Upon contacting her I find that he's continuing to be focused in class, but he's not turning in his homework. No, she won't accept his missing assignments. The best he can do is start doing the homework now. Even if he does perfectly from here on in he's probably going to get a low grade this trimester.

I checked her blog. There were no current assignments posted for the past 3 weeks. I emailed her and told her if she doesn't accept late assignments, could she let me know on the front end what his assignments are so that I can help him stay on track in doing them?

Unfortunately, I will not be able to tell you "on the front end" what his assignments are. Connor must take responsibility for his own homework completion. This includes writing his assignments in his agenda and completing them on time. This is basic organization that must be learned before he moves on to high school and college. We would be cheating Connor if we let you be his assistant - he must learn to do it for himself.

When I look at this and consider the implications this seems to be influenced by a philosophy of responsibility that doesn't leave many options. She seems to be a mouthpiece of this, saying, there is a basic organizational skill that Connor should be doing. He's not doing it. If I help him with it, or if you help him with it, he'll never learn it, even though he obviously hasn't learned it yet. If you help him you are enabling him by keeping him from experiencing the consequences of his lack of responsibility. He should fail, and experience the consequences of his failure. Then he'll be motivated to take responsibility next time.

This is an overt articulation of what I've sensed before as teacher reluctance when I notice that they haven't posted an assignment. But what if a child isn't intrinsically motivated by a love of the Spanish language to do well? What if he's only taking it because it's required? What if he doesn't care if he fails? If he fails because he doesn't care, does that motivate him to care and succeed next time? Is it appropriate parenting to let him hitch-hike on my caring, particularly if he's responsive when I know the assignments and influence him to do them? Or is it better to parent by punishing failure retrospectively? Does that motivate him to do better?

I sent the principal an email with three basic questions:

Is it reasonable for me to expect that a teacher inform me sooner if Connor is not doing his work?



Is it reasonable for me to request that the teachers post their assignments and tests so that I can backstop Conrad in keeping track of what his obligations are?



Is it appropriate to let him experience the consequences of his failure to organize—a failed grade in Spanish (and Humanities)? Certainly it would make life easier for me if I didn’t have to help him track this. Is there value in letting him fail in this sink or swim approach, at this age?

Any comments from you middle school parents or educators out there?

The evidence of history (successful ttc mentioned)

It is IEP time, Individualized Education Plan time for Scott. Monday we met with his adviser (that's what they call teachers at the charter school) and with his special education teacher.

This is dovetailing nicely with my exploration of a new practitioner to follow Scott's adhd and his medication. Gary and I met with her, just the two of us, 10 or 12 days ago. Friday we took both Scott and Connor so she could observe their interactions (and they obliged by deteriorating in front of her at the end of our hour long session). Last night was a session with just Gary and me.

One of the questions on the blue form--I forget its name, but it's a standard behavioral assessment form which gives indicators of what kinds of behaviors we're dealing with...inattentive, hyperactive, oppositional, defiant, compulsive, anxious--one of the questions was if he was having trouble academically at school. And when did it start?

I realized we're talking about two schools. He started kindergarten in our neighborhood school, and I transferred him to the charter school in January of first grade. I realized I wasn't sure how to answer the questionnaire, because at the neighborhood school his academic problems began in kindergarten...yet, his issues at Trillium were not being described in terms of 'academics'. No one's saying he's 'not at grade level' in reading, math, as if it's a "problem".

The occasion of a new school year, new special ed practitioners, a new teacher and a new classroom (he's 'graduated' from a Kindergarten-through-2nd-grade classroom to a 3,4,5 room) has challenged the part of my brain that wants to describe my intuitions about Scott. This classroom is conducted at a more mature level--it assumes a certain independence and capability of a student. Is this a place where Scott will be able to orient himself and get with the swim, or will he flounder and drown? In three years will he come out hopelessly behind? In other words, should it be a 'problem' that he's not at grade level? Am I being negligent if I'm not worried?

One of the ways I described Scott is that he is someone who is so captivated with the details of the first step, that a 5 mile hike is completely beyond him. This puts him in a totally different context than his peers who may be a mile, or two, into the hike. They may be oriented to a 5 mile hike. Scott is not. His adviser nodded when I made this analogy.

I'm remembering the children's book I used to read to the boys, "Leo the Late Bloomer". Leo's progress was only a problem for people who were waiting for him.

This kid has always kept me waiting. The mornings are an ordeal of our mis-matched paces. I stand, tapping my foot, as he oh-so-slowly puts on his sock. Then---the---other.

I used to joke that going somewhere was nearly impossible because Scott had managed to break getting into the van into a 50-step process that he lingered over --each and every one of those 50 steps. (First he opens the door. Then he gazes into the open door, slowly reaching for and scratching a spot on his leg. Finishes scratching. Oh, wait; it itches again. Scratches some more. Now the knee is lifting, lifting, the foot gliding forward. Wait. There's something on his shoe. He has to bend to examine it. Closely. Touch it. Now that he's down there there's something on the floor of the car he hasn't seen before. He needs to look at that, pick it up, there in the posture of one foot inside the van, the rest of him still planted outside.)

For a long time he was on a car model jag. We couldn't walk through a parking lot or down a street with parked cars without having to stop at each one so I could tell him what kind it was. It got worse when he added to the obsession the question of how much they cost. His preschool teachers described walking a group of twenty of them across a crosswalk on a busy street, cars waiting, and he and two other 3 year olds having to stop in the middle to settle a furious dispute of which of them was going to get to hold the little girl's hand. This is urgent, people.

It occurred to me in a flash yesterday that this kid has kept me waiting for signs of progress since birth. Oh, HELL no, he kept me waiting--for his very conCEPTion.

Connor was conceived on our first try after an early miscarriage (which was conceived on our second cycle of trying) when I was nearly 40. It never occurred to me that when we were ready to try for a second it might not happen so easily. I'd heard a three year spread was ideal and so
didn't even consider the wisdom of waiting. Connor turned two. We moved to St. Louis. We got settled in and started to try.

And nothing happened.

I went to a regular OB with an 'interest' in infertility. Tried two rounds of clomid. Moved on to an RE. Went through the diagnostics, which our insurance would cover; treatment it would not. Went another round of clomid with an IUI. We were living on one income and decided to gamble on one super-cycle--injectable fertility drugs with monitoring, trigger shot, and another IUI. This was one year after we moved to St. Louis. We put the meds and ultra-sounds on a credit card and rolled the dice.

So for a year we lived in limbo: would we be a one-child family, or would we realize our dream for another? I had a resource I hadn't had in 1996 when ttc Connor--the Internet--and it was a 2-edged sword: I'd been blissfully unaware of what an anomaly it was to conceive Connor so easily at 40. Now I realized what I'd been flirting with, and that there was no reason I'd be able to realize my dream when there were so many couples whose dreams were denied. With Scott I was totally in the dark until he was conceived after our one-shot IUI.

He kept me waiting for his birth. His due date coincided with the last of an unseasonably cool early summer in St. Louis, after which it got hellishly hot and humid. It also coincided with the visit of my parents and niece, so crowding a small house (single bathroom) with people waiting, waiting, and watching. At nearly 45 a passed due date was a worry for the OB, and probably for my parents as well. Who knows if all the expectant anxiety around the delay didn't lengthen it? A week passed, and we scheduled the c-section. The OB said, "The signs aren't favorable" (for a vaginal birth after caesarian). Without telling her I slipped in an Evening Primrose suppository and whispered, "Scott, if you want to come in the normal way, you've got to give us a sign."

The thing is, the signs WERE there, they were just too subtle for everyone around him. Part of what had resulted in Connor's c-section was that he was facing ventrally in utero. Scott was positioned just fine, but that fact got lost in the other facts--no progress in dilation, no rupture of amniotic fluid, a week overdue. The fact that I was having miserable diarrhea all day was lost on everyone. The story ended with his vaginal birth that very night, after a two-hour and ten minute labor.

Scott makes his connections in secret, far below the radar of the people who watch, and wait. This is his pattern. One year I worried because he did not seem to be 'getting' the notion of a calendar measuring time passing. It seemed to mean nothing to him. If I had 'tested' him I would have only been more anxious. Then, suddenly, he was meaningfully referencing times of year, and months. I'd had no indication he was putting it together, until I noticed him talking about it. He talked about it so naturally, and so matter-of-factly, that it was as if he'd always known it.

So in talking with his teacher and special ed teacher what was coming through was my anxiety that the classroom might be over his head and he might be drowning. Rob said, "This year I have a lot of third graders, and he's not the only one who is spacey. This is where we can appreciate the luxury of time. I have him for three years. With three years I can say to a child, 'Let's... hang... out. Let me get to know you, and you to know me. You'll figure it out, and take as much time as you need figuring it out.' Some kids spend all of third grade figuring it out. He won't be lost, because there is a certain funneling. Whether he can go somewhere independently or not right now, the current of the class takes him there regardless."

Holy shit, can I really just relax? Perhaps the heavy lifting of my job was to find him a place where he does have the luxury of the time to figure out things on his own, and make his connections in his private, inaccessible places. At the neighborhood school his skills, particularly his math, would be an academic problem, because the window with which he is supposed to demonstrate progress is so short.

And, I see that I have the weight of his history as evidence--he is going to develop in his own time, in his own way, independently of the priorities of others. He's in the right place.

I'm going to play! Perfect Moments Monday

There's a kind of snarky perfection to this--I'm not sure if that's the intent of the perfect moments theme, but here goes:

My boys are 4 years apart in age, 8 and 12. My younger has adhd, which intensifies behaviors that (I often suspect intentionally) irritate the older. The older is easily irritated, making himself the most tempting target. I remember an episode on the Simpsons, where some sanctimonious adult announces, "I will just now turn my back and bend over and tie my shoe", and does so, turning up the irresistible target of wriggling buttocks. The tension this creates in the children is unbearable, and they've nearly survived it without incident when the adult announces he's going to now tie his OTHER shoe. The rocks are launched from the slingshot.

Connor is that sanctimonious adult.

The boys can go from 0 to 80 in nothing flat. Sample conversation: Scott: "The sun goes this way...around the earth..." Connor: "No, the earth goes around the sun--DUMMY!!!" And they're off. Scott: "Well, you're stupid!" Connor: "Mom, Scott just called me stupid!" And I'm remembering my mom's remark from the past: "I want to knock your two heads together."

We were on a backpacking trip this past weekend because they had a holiday from school Friday. Neither wanted to go and they complained bitterly.

We were going to walk over to some low cliffs to watch the sunset and the boys were impatient to go. I'd dipped some water from the lake and had it on our little stove to boil. I wanted to purify it, and then let it cool overnight so we'd have cold drinking water in the morning. So we were waiting on the pot. To pass the time I asked Connor if he knew what the phrase, "A watched pot never boils" means.

He said, "Yes. If you're waiting for something it takes forever. But, one saying I've never gotten is, 'People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones.' I don't get that. Is that like saying people who don't brush their teeth get cavities?"

All of the most perfect examples of hypocrisy I've ever heard or experienced vanished and left me with a lame example: "Well, it's more like someone criticizing people for sneezing really loud and then sneezing loudly themselves. It's about criticizing someone for something that you do yourself."

Much later we're in the car on the way home, Gary driving. I've already threatened the boys several times that we're going to take the next exit and sit in the car until they tell me they can control their bickering because it's not safe to drive with all the yelling in back. There's a sullen silence reigning when Gary said, "Man, that guy has big ears!"

"What?"

"The driver in front of us. He has huge ears."

"How can you see that...oh!" When the light angle was just right this driver's ears were elephantine. Even several car lengths ahead and around a neck rest we could see them. Gary kept talking, "I don't think I've ever seen ears that big."

I couldn't help it, and started to laugh.

Connor was scandalized. "That's really MEAN of you guys! How would you like it if someone behind us was laughing at Dad's bald spot?"

We rounded a corner and the autumn light illuminated the inside of the car ahead again.

"There they are." said Gary. It took a moment to realize what "they" were, and this time I howled. I hadn't laughed like that in ages, with such complete abandon.

Connor spoke up again. "You guys are so mean! I can't believe you!"

I said, "Connor, we wouldn't laugh if we were in the same room as him. He can't hear us." Then, inspiration seized me: "I wouldn't punctuate any comment I'd make with, 'DUMMY!' Now that would be mean.'" I paused for effect, then, "Connor, people who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones!"

Way to drive home a metaphor! He got it, too. Eyes dropped, "Awwww....be quiet..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

But I have a runner up for that perfect moment. Last night I took the boys to a matinee our local theater puts on as a school benefit. They were running "Night At the Museum, Battle of the Smithsonian". The premise of the original "Night At the Museum" is a night guard at the American Museum of Natural History in New York City discovers that the exhibits come to life during the night. A magical ancient Egyptian tablet animates them. One of those exhibits is a mischievous, trouble-causing capuchin monkey.

The sequel finds the exhibits moved to the Smithsonian to be archived. Due to the capuchin's having stolen the Egyptian tablet all the exhibits in the greater institute (housed in 19 museums along the Washington Mall) come to life , including the first monkey in space (a capuchin) who happens to meet face to face with its counterpart from New York. There is a scene where the monkeys are slapping each other while the Ben Stiller character tries vainly to stop them, getting slapped himself and slapping them as well. Now THAT was a perfect image of my boys, verbally "slapping" each other, and me, trying to make it stop. I whispered to Connor, "That's US!"

Microcosm

My husband and I don't get along very well.

It's not the he-beats-me, or he-drinks-too-much kind of not-getting-along. It's not the big, obvious, catastrophic relationship ending kind of not-getting-along. Instead of a tsunami, it's a drip-drip-drip that gradually wears away the fabric.

This has made the troubles of our relationship difficult to assess. I remember distinctly a feeling of despair, early on in our marriage when something that happened resonated so painfully, so frequently, yet on its surface was so minor that it was not worth leaving a relationship for.

Death by a thousand paper cuts is not only painful, it doesn't garner much sympathetic support. When I leave the relationship it will appear that my hand held the knife that caused the hemorrhage.

So be it.

This marriage is perplexing because on the surface it does look whole. However, the very atoms that make it up are corrupt. This has confused me for years. When the source of trouble is not obvious, my past modus operandi was to question myself, if not outright blame. Is x bothering me because I'm too sensitive? Am I being too critical? Am I taking something too seriously? Am I focusing too much on the negative? Why can't I look at the positive? This is so insignificant. Why can't I just forget about it? I must be unforgiving. Do I do this thing too, but I'm a hypocrite and I just don't see it?

Gary returned from Asia on Saturday. He'd gone to China 10 days prior to trawl for work. He was talking with several factories about the possibility of representing them to manufacturers of luggage, packs, bags.

In his employed days he'd take his own car to the airport and leave it in the longterm lot. His company picked up the parking tab, or the taxi.

To save money I took him to the airport on the 23rd. It's a measure of the reality of our relationship that we don't part the way people who care about each other say goodbye. I suppose we could kiss, but it would be a lie, a token gesture. I wished him luck and drove off.

While gone we communicated via email. He sent a copy of the proposal he'd pitched to this company. I was impressed by its clarity, and his ability to anticipate various scenarios. Organizationally I'm not very good at that sort of thing, and I admire it as a strength in him. He is also someone who people instinctively like and trust; he's therefore a natural at sales. If there's any kind of opportunity available in this economy, he'll be able to thrive in it. I emailed him this thought. We also communicated about one area that we can usually connect around with no conflict, our love for our sons.

It wasn't lost on me, the break from the day-to-day contact, the messages where we could express appreciation with conflict filtered out, was an opportunity to have a reset of sorts. Good will had been a predominant tone--how far would it go if we could keep it going?

I have an image of one of those tilt-table marble labyrinth games. The object is to roll a marble from point a to point b along a twisty path without it dropping into one of the holes on either side of the path. You move the marble by adjusting the angle of the surface it's on. How long, how far, could good will travel before dropping into a hole?

Gary was returning on a weekend that my book reading group was going to be at the beach to choose the upcoming year's books. Ordinarily I'd go on the Friday night for the opening festivities, even though we don't actually present our books for consideration until Saturday afternoon over wine and appetizers. Gary's trip meant I'd have to miss Friday night and travel over on Saturday after I'd picked him up. His flight was to arrive at 8:30, but there was some doubt because there were typhoons in the western Pacific. Connor was spending the night at a buddy's; this meant Scott, who loves his sleep so very much, was going to have to get up early and accompany me to the airport.

I was one of the providers of the appetizers, so Friday evening was spent with me dividing my time between packing for the trip, reading reviews of the books so I could do a good job presenting them, making appetizers, grocery shopping (so there'd be food in the house and jet-lagged Gary wouldn't have to), and juggling the needs of my hyperactive younger son. I was up late Friday, and early Saturday when I realized Gary hadn't really said what time he wanted me at the airport. His last email had been Thursday, and he'd said the flight was due in at 8:30, but he didn't make a guess about how long it would take to navigate customs and luggage and so when I should be at the arrivals curb. I'd kept an eye on the website anyway since the storms had been anticipated and I'd feared a delay or cancellation. I decided to allow about a half hour and leave the house accordingly.

As usual, it was very difficult to persuade Scott to leave his nest, but we set out around 8:15. I had the cell phone, but was feeling uneasy about Gary not having one so I could call him. My doubts were stronger. We'd talked a little about the possibility of him bringing the light rail within striking distance of home. Maybe he thought we'd agreed to that. We've had miscommunications like that before. How long should I circle the pick-up area before heading for the light rail station?

So I was relieved when I saw his orange shirt and him leaning up against the wall under the awning. He tossed in his bags, greeted Scott and the dog, and climbed in the passenger seat.

"Did you have to wait very long?"

"Yes. Didn't you look at what time the flight came in?"

"... ...I did. But you didn't say what time you wanted me here, and I had to guess about how long it would take you to go through customs and get your luggage."

"My flight arrived at 8:15. Didn't I tell you to check the website in case it came early?"

"I didn't know how long customs would take."

"Customs takes 15 minutes." As if this is a fact that is common knowledge. As if everyone knows it, or should. If you drop something it falls to the ground. Duh.

"I didn't know that."

"Customs takes 15 minutes." As if somehow my knowing this now should make me responsible for knowing it earlier, retroactively.

Not a hint that he's aware that it's not rational to expect this of someone.

I felt that weird, sickening feeling inside.

For a moment I remembered the idea of clean slate, reset button, good will. I wondered if I had squandered the opportunity--one of these strange theoretical instances of 'unconscious' self-sabotage. Wouldn't the first obvious step in a challenge of keeping the good-will marble rolling be to arrive on time in picking him up? Was there something I'd missed, some obvious choice I could have/should have made to keep that volley going? Maybe I should have asked him in an earlier email what time he expected me at the airport, when he thought he could be outside.

But, he hadn't told me what he wanted, either. If it was important that he not have to wait for me for 20 minutes, wouldn't it have behooved him to specify?

How often have I had to wait for him, come to think of it, when he has had a specific time to work with. How often at this very airport (come to think of it), juggling a pile of luggage and the safety of two small, restless boys who are oblivious to people dragging luggage by, or curbs with traffic whizzing by feet away from them?

It was his total absolution of himself, and his own role in his having to wait which was at the heart of the sinking inside. Not to mention his obliviousness to what it had cost me to get there, indeed to be there.

This is the kind of thing that seems too trivial to consider divorce over. It is just one moment, one component of the billions that comprise a relationship, a marriage. However, the sickness that is in this moment is present in the others. The other moments contain this same dna, this failed chromosome. It's present in the minor interactions, and it's there in the important ones. At the heart of our moments is a failure to connect--something crucial to their successful resolution.

I realize that my attempts to understand this were like the marble in the tilting-table labyrinth too. My line of inquiry would have dropped through the hole at the very first challenge. I would have wondered if the chill that hit me from the moment he said, "yes" when I asked if he'd waited long was legitimate. I'd have wondered if I was reading too much into it. I would have told myself to cut him some slack. I would have wondered at the persistence of the feeling of despair, would have accused myself of being too sensitive. I would have wondered if it was legitimate for me to hold him responsible for having not told me when I should be there; I would have wondered if that was evading responsibility myself. I would have wondered if I was "blaming" him. I'd worry that I was making a mountain of a molehill. I'd wonder if I was dwelling on the negative.

The cumulative effect of the above paragraph would be reinforcing a belief that there was something wrong with what I was feeling in that moment when I felt my good will ebb away, and that I shouldn't be feeling it. And I suppose the purpose of that is to deny the feelings that tell me this is not good for me. The purpose of the denial is for me to stay, by undermining the feelings that tell me to go. In a curious way, this denial helps me to tolerate the poison.

And I've been doing it for years. Including before I ever knew Gary.