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Happy Birthday, little guy!
Five
Category: 4 years old
Speech Therapy
The boy has always had amazing language skills. I remember when we’d go to his well child visits and would receive a sheet of paper with his expected language milestones, all of which he had achieved months prior. I thought, rather uncharitably, that the milestones were for the dumb kids.
Things were a bit different with the girl. We’d go to the same well child visits, look at the sheets, and she’d have maybe one or two of them achieved, and just barely at that. I know you’re not supposed to compare children, but it’s sort of hard not to.
Denver has a city program for early evaluation and intervention for any delay, and I figured it couldn’t hurt to have the girl evaluated. We sat on the ground with a bunch of toys, books, and puzzles, and two delightful women engaged the girl in a series of tasks. During each one, the women would nod vigorously and beam at the girl, who was at her charming best. At the end of it, they looked at me and said, “She’s not behind at all! She’s actually about 15% ahead of her age.”
Um..okay…I’ll just…walk away now…I’m not an overacheiving parent…no…not at all…
The funny thing is, I just went to find a video of the boy speaking at her age and you know what I found? They use exactly the same number of words. The only difference is that the boy’s speech was much clearer.
The therapists did note this, especially that the girl tends to skip letters and drop the end off of words. They encouraged me to enunciate and repeat sounds back to the girl to improve her pronunciation. For example, if I show her a picture of a dog, and she says, “Daw!” I’m supposed to say, “Right! Dog! Do-Guh-Guh-Guh,” emphasizing the “g” sound.
I went over this at dinner that night, and the boy listened to every word.
This morning at breakfast, Eric asked the boy what music he wanted to listen to.
“Wilco!” he replied.
“Wacko!” parroted the girl.
The boy turned to his sister, “Wuh-Wuh-Wuh-il-il-il-ko-ko-ko.”
“Wacko!” said the girl.
He kept repeating the appropriate diction of “Wilco” until she more or less got it right. “Wuhlco!” she finally blurted out.
With such a talented speech therapist in the house, I’m sure she’ll be speaking clearly in no time!
You Probably Think This Blog is About You
Yesterday at the school, a policeman came in to gave a talk. According to the boy, he talked about how he is there to protect us and he tried to trick them with a disguise.
Today, I heard more about the encounter from one of the assistants at the school.
The policeman showed the kids pictures of “pretty” people and “ugly” people. He asked them to say whether or not they thought the person looked “good” or “bad” based on the picture. (I can’t say I love the idea behind this lesson, and there’s much to be said about it but since it’s not the point of this story I’m just going to let it slide.) The kids uniformly said the pretty people were good and the ugly people were bad. I’m not sure what all the “ugly” people looked like, but I was told that one of them was a man with a mohawk and an earring. All the kids called out “bad” when the card was displayed, except for one kid who yelled out “that looks like my daddy!” Indeed, her father sports a kelly green mohawk, piercings and tattoos. The policeman then went on to say that we can’t tell if people are good or bad based on whether they’re pretty or not.
The boy shot his hand up into the air and was called upon.
“Also,” he said, “If they are too pretty, then they might be vain.”
And really, isn’t that the bigger threat?
Feast or Famine
You may have noticed that it’s somewhat feast or famine when it comes to the blog. Two weeks go by and…nothing, then all of a sudden there’s three posts in a week.
As it turns out, this is a fairly good reflection of my work schedule. As a hospitalist, I work for somewhere between four to seven days in a row and then have a chunk of time off. When I work it can be consumptive and then when I get to the breaks, it’s time for me to resume life as I enjoy it. For the most part, it’s worked well.
Lately, however, work has been nothing short of oppressive. Due to a convergence of circumstances, we’re short-staffed and busier than usual, especially for summertime. I’m so frazzled by the time that I get home, that I can’t stand for anything not to go perfectly. I mean, I leave work to go home and be with my family, which is what I really want to be doing, right? But my four-year-old and two-year-old clearly did not get the memo and proceed to behave horrifically, which means that I spend the one hour I have with the girl (who still goes to sleep at seven) and two hours with the boy–I spend this time irritated, annoyed, and angry. Voices are raised. Okay, my voice is raised.
Hospital work also occurs at a constant decibel level of about one trillion. This means that when I get home, all I want is silence. Again, my children did not get this memo either. I really need to work on a more effective intra-home mail delivery system.
Of course, this all adds to the guilt I feel in that I’m spending so little time with them when I work. In general, I don’t feel a lot of guilt as a working mom. Almost all of the studies I’ve seen show that parents (stay-at-home or not) nowadays spend more time with their kids than stay-at-home moms (because back in the day there were almost no stay-at-home dads) used to. For me, it’s important that my kids see that their mom works outside the home. I don’t mean to discount stay-at-home parents at all, and I know that this is a sensitive subject, but for me personally I want my kids to know that both mom and dad can have professional careers.
But when I’m feeling overworked, the guilt really sets in. I tear out of the house early, hoping that I can leave work earlier (which never happens) so I barely see the kids in the morning. Then, when I get home, I’m so exhausted and in such a bad mood that I can’t even enjoy any of the time I have with them because the kids fail to act as if they’re in an episode of “The Donna Reed Show” and act like normal preschoolers, which involves a lot of screaming and the word, “NO!”
To add to the plate fullness, I’m training for a sprint triathlon, and the girl’s Montessori teacher has decided that she’s ready to potty train, which means that our laundry load has increased exponentially.
I do my best to turn everything around, and realize that in every negative there is a positive. Perhaps my job is busy and stressful, but at the end of the day my work is meaningful and helps people, and moreover I have a job when so many are struggling to find one. My kids may stress me out also, but this means that I have two kids, when some struggle to have any. That I can train for a race means that I’m in good health and can find the free time to do so, even if time is tight. And even the laundry means that I have clothing to wash, easy access to a washing machine, and constant electricity and water that I never have to think about.
I’ve been away from work for two days now, and the depression is just beginning to lift thanks to a combination of hanging out with friends, exercise, time away, and just remembering how much I love these little kids.
Tonight, the boy was sick. Probably some generic virus, hot fever. He called for me. As he lay in bed and I daubed his forehead with a cool cloth, I said, “You know, kid, I love you more than anything.” “I know,” he replied.
I thought he had drifted off to sleep and I began to walk out of the room. I heard a scratchy gravel voice call after me, “Mom, I love you so much too.”
And that sort of brought everything right again.
Good Hair Day
Rain dance
The other night, sitting on the porch watching the floodgates of the sky open and pour down, crashing thunder punctuating the rain.
The boy’s eyes open wide and he exclaims, “Mommy! I know who’s sending us all this rain!! It’s Indra!”
I reply, “No, I think he’s the sun god.”
“No, he’s the thunder god! I know he is!!”
I pull out my trusty reference guide, The Little Book of Hindu Deities, and dammit if the kid isn’t right.
Often, when he is upset or has been in a screaming match with me and gets sent to his room, I will go up a few minutes later and find him surrounded by his books on Ganesh, Hanuman, and the Ramayana. He calls these his “God books.”
“Mommy,” he says, “I’m going to ask Ganesh to help me calm my body.”
Wouldn’t you know, it works.
The kid’s a better Hindu than I’ll ever be.
Milestone!
Before I move on from the topic of the last few posts, I do want to clarify that I don’t think what B said to my son was racist, or that it means his parents are prejudiced in any way. I mean, he’s four. He could have just as easily said, “I don’t like your shoes” and B’s father was probably right that he didn’t mean anything by using skin color, other than to be mean, which all kids will do at some point or another, even my precious little angels. As adults, we know that race is a far more sensitive topic than shoe choice, but I don’t think that the little kids are necessarily aware of that.
Speaking of shoes (how’s that for a segue?), the boy can tie his own shoes now!! He desperately wanted a pair of lace up shoes, and we got him a pair of Converse. He started doing the lacing work at school and can now tie his own shoes–yay, Montessori! Here’s a short video–he’s so proud of himself.
You may have noticed that in the video he is wearing a three piece suit.
He LOVES this suit. He wears it as often as possible, which is usually about twice a week, since we can’t do laundry much quicker than that. He first started wearing suits last year, when he finally fit into a size 3T suit that my parents had purchased for him ages ago. He wore that until it was in tatters, and my parents just bought him this new one, which he wears constantly unless it’s in the wash. Whenever we’re in public, I feel compelled to tell others that he dresses himself this way and I do not force the kid to wear a suit.
Places to wear a suit you might not think of–
On the playground:
Riding a bicycle:
Climbing:
Or just going to school:
He’s my own little Alex P. Keaton.
Aftermath
Thanks to all who left such insightful comments, and those whom I spoke to in person. We spoke to the teacher’s aide, whose face just dropped when we mentioned what the boy had said. She told us the incident was over a month ago, but had happened basically the way that the boy related to us. She had overheard them, and immediately talked to B about how different people have different skin colors but are all the same. She then talked to the boy, too, and all seemed to be well until the other day.
I felt strongly, as did most people that both Eric and I spoke with, that we should talk to B’s parents and let them know what had transpired.
Eric caught up with B’s father as they were leaving school, and here’s how the conversation went, after pleasantries exchanged:
Eric: “A while ago B said something that really hurt the boy, and I wanted to let you know about it”
B’s dad: “Oh, what was it?”
Eric: “Well, he said he didn’t like brown skin, and it really hurt the boy’s feelings.”
B’s dad: “Oh. Well, I’m sure he didn’t mean it.”
And then walked off.
The next day, B’s mom walked right by Eric in the morning without making eye contact or saying a word.
I was dismayed by this seeming utter lack of concern and even questioning–I mean, if someone ever told me the boy did something like that, I’d at least want to ask more questions about it to know what had happened and express concern for the other kid. I can’t say I was entirely surprised. Even before Eric spoke with B’s dad, though, I steeled myself because I know from experience that when you approach people for conversations like this, the response you get is NEVER satisfying. It was important for them to know, but I can’t control what they do afterwards. Who knows, maybe they’re working on some elaborate apology card for the boy at home, but I’m not saving any space on the mantel.
We also spoke to the teacher’s aide who overheard the conversation, and did say that we wanted to know if anything like that ever happens again. We love her in general, but I do think she should have at least talked to the head teacher about what had happened–maybe they could have had some conversations in class, or songs, or something. Now that I type that, I realize that I’m asking the teacher to teach something because I don’t think the parents are. We ask a lot of our teachers, no?
In the end, I think this has been a good thing. It’s made us more aware of the need to actively teach both our children about race and that despite living in what I perceive to be a fairly liberal, open-minded city that seems to have a lot of mixed couples, they will still have to deal with issues about their skin color. Now that I think about it, it shouldn’t be that hard to talk about. I mean, we talk about how there are all different kinds of families–two mommies, two daddies, adopted, etc., how women can do most anything that men do and vice versa, why not expand that to include talking about how people of different races can do anything, too? It sounds sort of dumb to my ears to even say that as an adult, but maybe that’s what the kids need to be hearing.
I’ve got to think that it’s better than saying nothing at all.
Colorblindness
This morning, while brushing his teeth, the boy says, “Mommy, don’t I look white?”
I wasn’t sure what he meant–like, was he white from his toothpaste. I asked him to clarify.
“My skin, it looks white, doesn’t it? Not brown.”
“Well, no, honey. It looks brown, and it will always look brown.” I said.
“You mean I’m never going to turn white?!” He cried, upset.
“No, you’re going to stay brown your whole life.” I was beginning to wonder where this was going.
“But, I want to be white! I don’t want to be brown anymore!!”
Oh boy.
“Why not, sweetheart? What makes you say that?” I asked.
“Because B—* told me he doesn’t like brown skin and that made me sad.”
Oy.
Eric walks over and says, “You are beautiful, inside and out. You have a beautiful heart, and you are a wonderful person, no matter what color you are on the outside.”
I tell him that is true, and that sadly, he may always hear people say bad things about his skin. “I think your skin is perfect, and I love it, and I would never want it to be any other color.”
This brings a big smile to his face, and we hug, and things seem to be fine again.
Po Bronson wrote a book recently called “Nurtureshock,” and while I haven’t read the entire book (and don’t know that I agree with everything in it based on what I’ve heard), the chapter about race is excerpted in Newsweek here. In a nutshell, it says that the trend towards NOT talking about race at all or using phrases such as “everyone is equal” have the opposite effect, and do little to instill the colorblindness that they are intended to teach. According to the studies cited, children as young as 6 months see racial differences, and certainly the 4 year olds in my son’s class do.
Still, what does it mean exactly to talk about race? I’ve read the examples in the article, and understand those, but I have to think that there’s more than that. It’s easy to talk about religious differences and say how people believe different things, but it’s not quite so easy to do that for race, is it? I think the take home point is to make sure that you teach your kids that people DO look different, DO have different skin colors, but are all the same on the inside.
I’m not sure exactly what happened in the classroom. The boy tells us that he told one of his teachers what happened, and we’re going to ask her about it tomorrow. Depending on what she says we may or may not talk to B’s parents, but the truth is that the boy has an excellent memory and doesn’t make stuff like this up. B’s parents are very nice people, and my guess is that they may fall into the category of people who simply don’t talk about race at all, and that it may not be something that they have to deal with much. I mean, I was recently called “the prettiest little colored girl she’d ever seen” by a VERY elderly patient, am asked on a regular basis “where I’m really from,” and have had people comment on how I “don’t have an accent at all”! I’m quite certain that neither of B’s parents, both Caucasian, have ever had anything like that happen! Bronson mentions a statistic that most white parents don’t talk to their kids about race, and most non-white parents to. He fails to mention that this is because if you are the majority race, you simply don’t have to deal with the same racial issues as someone of a minority race, and the questions are less likely to arise.
I think we handled it okay so far, but we’ll see how it goes with B’s parents.
And, on a side note, if there is a patron saint of parenting, could you PLEASE slow down on the difficult questions? What’s next? Where do babies really come from?
*name changed to protect the toddler.
Garden, Stage II
Next step for the garden was irrigation. Now, I know there were some comments about stripping the grass out, but I’d like to leave that in for a couple reasons, one of which is so that the entire area doesn’t turn into a mudpit in the fall. We had a suggestion to border the lawn with plastic edging to keep it from spreading, and I think I’ll try that. I realize it may send out creepers, but we’ll deal with that when we get there.
Also, one commenter (thanks, Susan) had me running for the geiger counter, but I’ve since been talked off the ledge. I haven’t gotten the lead testing done yet, though it’s somewhere in the list of things to do.
Here’s how it looks now!
I think it sort of looks like Medusa now, or a bacterium with pili.
One thing is for sure. Anything I plant will get a GOOD drenching.
The individual little tubes put out 2 gallons a MINUTE, which seems like a whole lot of water to me. Once plants start coming up, we’ll adjust them to water right at the base.
The spray heads around the center spray the grass and do a decent job of soaking the middle, too.
If we need to, we can put another soaking tube into the middle. I’m a little concerned that the grass sprayers are going to spray the leaves of the plants in the center and hurt them, but then I remember that that’s basically how I watered the same plants all last year and they survived.
Once all this was in, we put in some seeds! Carrots, peas, and lettuce.
Hopefully the next pictures will be of some little sprouts coming up and the starts going in!
fretzes on the loose 