Parenting 101

Parenting 101

 

I’ve pushed three pink squirming babies into the world. It hurt like hell. I thought nothing could be worse. I was wrong.

Parenting is the most painful experience in the world and one that we are woefully under-prepared for. There’s a reason why psychologists all over the world have couches filled with people blaming their mothers for all their problems. That’s because we are to blame.

Parenting is like putting on a blindfold, been spun around hundred times and then made to (still blindfolded) walk across a tightrope below which yaws an endless abyss. If you pass that, you then have to traverse a million miles of eggshells without crushing a single one in 4-inch stilettos. 

If you manage that, you still have to get across a minefield, kill some dragons without singeing your hair or chipping a nail, make lunch, read a bedtime story, do long bloody division and find out what x equals and why.

Forget Navy Seals training. You want hard-core? Try being a mother.

The South African education system is a write-off. You can send your child to a government school and sentence him or her to a lifetime of semi-illiteracy, and a career path that peaks somewhere around nail technician, or you can send them to a private school in the hope that one day they will make enough money as the CEO of a Fortune 500 Company to put you up in a nice old-aged home.

We’d like to laud the success stories of the new South Africa, but when it some to education there aren’t any. Education is for the elite. It’s not racist anymore. It’s just about money. Either you have it or you don’t, and if you don’t you may as well bugger off. The private schools may be non-profit, but they are still businesses and the bottom line is that if your child is not making the grade, they have 70 others waiting for his place.

Alright, they didn’t say it quite like that, but it’s the overall feeling I got. My son is not making the grade.

Yesterday we went in for a group session. My head was pounding, my palms were sweaty and I wanted to be ill. Actually, the first thing I did when it was over was give thanks to my doctor and down half a Xanax. Teachers scare the living daylights out of me. They have ever since my Grade 2 teacher said she could turn into dragon and burn me to a cinder.

Small boy aged 7 lacks the foundation skills necessary for Grade 2. It sounds simple, but it isn’t, because they use buzzwords and phrases that mean nothing to me. Ask me about marketing strategies, social networking and ROI, and I’m your girl, but start using educational terms and you may as well be talking Greek. I know what phonological awareness is as a concept, but I have no idea what it actually means in reality. What is he supposed to be able to do that he can’t?

There were two distinct approaches to the intervention.

The school: Keep him back in Grade 1 for another year

The parents: Put him forward and help us build the skills he needs

Diametrically opposed points of view. Neither party vaguely resembled the bamboo of Eastern philosophy. Two hours of talking in circles later we got nowhere. 

I think we all need to bend a bit. I hate confrontation, so in sitting there in the headmistress’s office my anxiety gets the better of me. Sitting in his classroom, my son’s anxiety gets the better of him.

The thing is that what one person finds totally stress free can move another to tears. Supermarkets are not stressful for most people. For me, supermarkets are a full on nervous breakdown and end with me sobbing in the frozen food aisle. The lovely sunny library at school is a wonderful place for most of the boys, but is a place of terror for my son. His anxiety levels are hindering him from learning.

Perhaps it is time to make a list. Lists are good.

Staying back in Grade 1

Pros	Cons
·        More time to solidify his skills base ·        More time to mature emotionally and developmentally ·        Less stress with learning as he will have already done it ·        An environment he is already comfortable in ·        An easy solution	·        When the “switch” flicks he’ll get bored ·        Anxiety based on having his peers advance while he stays back ·        Future stigma attached to “failing” ·        Doing the same thing over and over is the definition of insanity ·        Should perhaps do this at a new school and the logistical implications at year end mean it is nigh impossible to find him a new school

Going to Grade 2

Pros	Cons
·        Remains with his social peer group ·        A new teacher and new environment may break his behaviour cycle ·        New skills might excite him ·        The “switch” flicking will motivate him to achieve	·        His lack of basic skills makes the gap widen more and more between him and his peers ·        His confidence fails more as he fails to achieve raising his anxiety levels more

I am sure there are others, but these are the basics.

What about the one thing we are all missing. My son. What does he want to do? He wants everyone around him to be happy to his own detriment. He’ll give me whatever answer he thinks I want to hear. The school psychologist is now going to take two play therapy sessions with him to find out where his head is at.

If he wants to go up a grade I’ll move heaven and earth to help him.

If he wants to stay back and re-enforce his skills, I’ll move heaven and earth to help him

I’m making a decision here that will impact the rest of his life.

There are consequences and risks whatever we choose to do. It is terrifying.

My husband has been scouring research reports. Something like 69% of American high-school drop-outs have been kept back a year at some point in their schooling. There is no quantifiable proof that keeping a child back helps his development and academic achievement in any way in the long term. Short-term there is a great improvement in marks, the next year they are average and the third year they are behind again. 

Where to from here?

All of us need to make what the Chinese call “concessions”

My ideal is this:

Let him go to Grade 2 for the first term.

If he copes fantastic first prize.

If he doesn’t we can move him in Term 2 and it gives us the time to find a school that can accommodate him.

Or we can move him down back to Grade 1.

We could let him stay in Grade 1 for the first term and if he exceeds expectations and the “switch” flicks he is moved to Grade 2 in the second term.

 

Either way, right now I don’t need a full scale IEP (independent curriculum). What I ask is that for the remainder of the term he gets a little less work in class than everyone else so he can complete the task without panicking about time.

The important thing I ask is the hardest to give. Put your pre-conceived notions about my child away. When he achieves something don’t say, “Well, will he remember them tomorrow?”

I love my son. However, I also know him better than just about anyone. He is the middle child. His siblings are louder, more extrovert and run roughshod over him. How does he get attention? He opens those big blue eyes and plays the helpless one. Everyone rushes to comfort him.

He is manipulating the classroom environment to get the most attention possible and it is working.

Why should he read the question when the teacher will read it for him?

Why should he do the work, when the teacher will give him the right answer?

He doesn’t need to be babied. He needs direction, limits and boundaries. I don’t let him away with emotional manipulation at home, so don’t let him do it at school. Be firm. Be strict. Be understanding of his challenges, but empower him to find the answers, don’t give them to him. Praise his successes so he knows that is where he’ll get attention. Right now he gets more attention for his failures than his successes. That’s backwards.

 

He has a mother. Me. I am not a teacher.

He has a teacher. You. You are not his mother.

We are a team, but we have different roles and responsibilities.

Don’t let him play symphonies on your heartstrings.

He’s a veritable Mozart when it comes to that.

School days

“The best days of all.” That’s a line from one of my school songs, sang each year by the old girls. The sad truth is that for many people they aren’t happy days at all and certainly not the best ones. For some school is a 12 year-year-long nightmare. I don’t want it to be that way for my children. I want them to enjoy learning, love reading, be in the sports teams and do well. I fairly confident most parents are the same.

The problem is that my pride can get in the way of what might be best for my children. I gave birth to them, of course I know best. The thing is, sometimes I don’t. Like the time I made my son eat oatmeal despite his protestations and he threw up all over me. Or when I did battle with the school to force them to send my child into Grade 1 when he patently wasn’t ready.

It’s now time to sit back and reconsider. I sat in his classroom this morning and watched the other boys read. My son is nowhere near their level of competence. His mathematics is fine, he seems to grasp it well, but his language, sports skills and social interaction is not as advanced as the older boys in his class. At break times he plays with the Grade 0 boys.

He was born in September and is the youngest in his class. That developmental gap is huge now, although by the time he reaches high school it will have closed. I was also one of the youngest in my class. The others were always stronger, more confident, got boobs first, had boyfriends first, got cars first. I was the last. It wasn’t great. I survived, but an extra year might have done me the world of good. Who knows?

So, do I force him up to Grade 2 where he will continue to struggle or do I let him stay back a year with a teacher he loves, in an environment he beginning to gain confidence in? My gut feel is to keep him back. He’ll be better at sport, better in the classroom and able to concentrate on growing his self-esteem as he begins to succeed instead of battle.

I have fought this every step of the way. I have fought the teacher, the headmistress, the speech and language therapist, the academic support teacher, the school psychologist and myself. I didn’t want to be the one who made a mistake. I’m beginning to realise I was. 

I put my son in this position. I’m the one who has destroyed his confidence. I am the one who let her pride get in the way of being a parent, a guardian and a mentor.

I hope there is time to make it right. 

The Plane, the Game and the Grievous Injury

My husband and the father of my children is once more in deepest, darkest Africa. In fact, I am not sure if Kenya counts as deepest, darkest anything, but the sentiment is the same.

This one’s for him.

In case you were left bereft
As the train left
I have your travel card

There’s not much to report
Of any sort
About the day I had

Small girl aged 5
Had a day that was “fine”
She drew you a plane

Small boy aged 6
Got a pal in a fix
All part of the game

Small boy aged 9
Is fine
We stopped the bleeding

Karate was cancelled
Sport was too
I didn’t get caught speeding

The Bossy Boots, the Labradoodle and the Sippy Cup

I read Small girl aged 5’s school report with great amusement. “Small girl aged 5 is a very independent little girl who knows her own mind.” So, basically she’s a bossy little boots then? Thank goodness for that because with two older brothers she better be able to hold her own.

Small boy aged 9’s is too much of an introvert according to his termly overview. Is that a bad thing? I was of the opinion it just was and not subject to a good or bad judgement. I am an introvert, my father is, my mother is and we all turned out just fine. Introverts judge themselves harshly and are less concerned about what others think than by living up to their own standards, which quite often are set far too high. Yes, there will be challenges, he’ll never be the child who raises his hand and shouts, “Me! Me! Me!” That doesn’t mean he doesn’t know or that he doesn’t have something to share. This is not to say he doesn’t want attention or acknowledgment for his successes, he just doesn’t like to court it overtly.

Small boy aged 9 is still visiting the school psychologist regularly who is one of those amazing people who believes in giving feedback. Small boy aged 9 is about to embark on a Bootcamp Gassuku with his karate sensei. Part of the activities is a paintball game. This is a classic case of me, the parent, thinking I know what’s best and being proved wrong. Small boy aged 9 is in a state over shooting someone and being shot at. Considering I have never played paintball for the same reasons, I shouldn’t be surprised. Although I have told him that he need not take part, he is determined to face his fear. For this he has earned my tremendous respect.

In a similar vein Small boy aged 6 finally said that he loathes karate and want to do gymnastics or horse riding instead. It matters desperately to him that he makes me happy and it is with relief and pride that I am now watching him begin to assert his own needs. It is all very well always sharing and being concerned about other people, but it is also important to make yourself a priority.

The truth of that only occurred to me when I gave birth to second son. I struggled to cope, I had severe PND and a psychologist had to sit me down and read me the riot act. What he said is that instead of putting everyone else at the centre of my universe and revolving around them, I needed to put myself at the centre of my universe instead. It involved a careful reworking of my priorities and is a concept I still struggle with. As a parent you can’t always put yourself first, but one day the chicks will fly the nest and then what? You’ll end up adopting a labradoodle.

What the hell is a labradoodle? Apparently it is a cross between a Labrador and a Poodle. Whoa! Hold the press? No kidding. It’s way more than that though. A labradoodle is the must-have celeb-cessory. It’s better than a BFF. It’s more chic than a Chihuahua. Celeb owners include: Jennifer Aniston (as a gift from Brad), Jeremy Clarkson (Oh no, tell me it’s not true?), Richard Hammond (oh no again), Jeremy Irons and Tiger Woods. Bella, Elle Macpherson’s labradoodle is about to come Australia’s Next Top Model. She is the face of dogside.com, Elle’s doggie fashion brand.

Ask Small boy aged 6 to write a sentence with dog and he’ll produce: “A dog is man’s best friend.” Friend, not fashion accessory or baby substitute. Would you dress your best friend in a pink ballet tutu with sparkles? Not if you want stay friends. It’s a bit like bridesmaids. You can always tell the relationship between a bride and her bridesmaids by what they wear as she launches herself down the aisle.

My bridesmaids were told my colour scheme given strict instructions to dress themselves according to their personal style. They did, they are very beautiful, talented and stylish people, just in radically different ways. There was no way I could force them into matching bubble skirts and expect them to ever speak to me again. When I reciprocated for the first of the two she designed a magnificent skirt and silk top that is gorgeous and, believe it or not, actually wearable past the day. I’ve seen some terrible buttercup yellow monstrosities in wedding photographs that show the bride looking smug and her bridesmaids appalled. No love lost there.

Fashion is one of those fickle things as are the occasions that are the fashionista highlights of the social calendar. The Queen may have Ascot, but down here Southside we have the Durban July. Strangely enough, racing was the bastion of the white elite and despite the anti-colonialist rhetoric of the ruling party, they all flock down to watch the ponies and place a bet.

At this gathering of the rich and famous, our esteemed President happened to walking under a balcony, when an owner above was jostled by the crowd and lost control of his glass of whiskey. The upshot is that some of the golden liquid fell from the balcony narrowly missing the very important person below. It happens to the best of us and while we may suffer some embarrassment and have to foot the bill for some dry cleaning, that would be that. Not for this poor chap. He’s been found guilty of assault. A little bit OTT maybe?

Check it out here: http://www.2oceansvibe.com/2011/07/28/zuma-drink-spiller-guilty-of-assault/.

Next time he’d better get one of those spill-proof sippy cups for toddlers.

Tarzan and Geek Girl

Spouse: “I love you.”
Me: “Why?”
Spouse: “Because you quote Star Wars before sex.”
When did I marry a cast member from Big Bang Theory? And what has eleven years of marriage done to me that I can quote from Star Wars, that I know there are only three Star Wars movies and those 2 sci-fi ones plus the last one that defies logic? I am afraid, very afraid.

I was also very afraid of yet another parent-teacher stand-off this morning at the lovely hour of 7am. I am not compus mentis at 7am, I doubt I could tell you my name yet alone what day of the week it is. My stomach knotted in terror I was ushered into a beautiful office as befitting a headmaster and met a lovely group of people all who think my oldest son is wonderful, and most importantly, normal. We agreed that his biggest challenge is a fear of failure and he will see the school psychologist to learn some coping skills. We also have to lay off the stress and provide him with routine and structure.

The headmaster is an empathetic and intelligent man. Beautifully dressed, which matters to me, and has a huge glass bottle of suckers and chocolates in the middle of his desk. The boys must love coming to his office. We got to sit on real chairs, for grown-ups. All that was missing was a cup of coffee, the welcoming aroma of which permeated the air making me salivate.

Now all that remains is to convince the Pre-Prep that my younger son needs the same approach. Feminist liberal that I am it galls to me to say it, but what he needs is a man. I think I may ask the priest to read with him for half an hour a week. Small Boy aged 6 responds to male authority. I suppose a bit like a pitbull.

The weekend was spent between birthday parties, of children we actually know thank heavens, and the Great Wendy House Construction. Emmarentia Dam was the locale of party number one for Small Girl turning 2 aka Emma. Huh. I wonder if that’s why they chose the dam? Funny. The boys and I were happily feeding the ducks when I spied something moving through the water. It looked like an eel about a meter long. Slowly, it dawned on me that it was not an eel, it was a tail, and the tail was attached to a body. It was not a fish. Nothing that disgusting and pre-evolutionary could be called a fish. It inhaled a entire cupcake as though it were a crumb.

I am always surprised by the ducks at the dam. During the week they’ll eat just about anything you chuck at them. On Saturdays they’re slightly more discriminating. On Sundays they’ll watch a entire government loaf sink. They hold out on Sundays for the housewives who descend with leftover kitka and sourdough. They won’t even touch a croissant, far to pedestrian for the likes of them.

The second party of the weekend was a Aerobranch in Melrose, a new sort of tree canopy tour thing. Upon arrival my husband took advantage of the emptiness of the host’s gas bottle to disappear to Builders Warehouse, his mecca, for a good two hours. This left me to train and spot two small boys climbing and swinging through the forestry. It was a bit tight on the old nerves, but they got the hang of it quick enough and took to it fearlessly. Testosterone, which I often feel must be a terrible challenge to live with, obviously is an advantage in these types of situation where all logical reasoning yells at you to keep your feet on terra firma. Speaking of the dreaded hormone, a father there told me that men don’t only think about sex. Apparently they think about sex, food and sleep in equal measure. This is why they eat a burger, burp, get action and then fall into snoring somnambulant grace. A beautiful thing is a man.

The Great Wendy House Construction continues apace and I learnt a thing or two over the weekend about DIY. First off, a spray gun for painting is a necessity and brushes should go the way of the sabre-toothed tiger – into the history books. Secondly, a facemask a la WW1 trench warfare is equally as important or you end up with painted nostrils and coughing up great chunks of pale pink paint. Finally, and most importantly, don’t just take the word of the salesman at Builders Warehouse that your roof paint should be mixed with turps or thinners. Despite all training to the contrary, read the instructions on the tin first. When you have a water-based paint and you add thinners to it, a weird chemical reaction starts. First of all it curdles like sour milk and then promptly forms a sort of rubbery concrete-like oatmeal ooze that is impossible to clean out of a spray gun nozzle and looks utterly revolting. Regardless of this little learning curve the construction is now beautifully pink and its roof fitting seamlessly a dark gray. Small Girl aged 5 does not the roof grey, she wants each roof strip to be a different primary colour - a sort of rainbow migraine like effect. Tough luck sweetheart.

Spouse is off into deepest, darkest Africa again today, back to Ghana. I did not pack his suitcase, but I do know that most of it is taken up with Maggi 2 minute noodles – his attempt to avoid a recurrence of the Great Nigerian Dysentery Disaster. With no day off in the middle of this week it stretches ahead a terrible expanse of days. My mother has yet to return from the Holy Land so I hope she wasn’t caught up in a localised version of that American’s attempt to predict Armageddon. I feel a little lost without her nearby and have taken to leaving long-winded messages on her mobile. My father in another long-distance call pointed out that she can’t read SMSes or figure out how to listen to her voicemail on the most stupid phone ever sold (some kind of Sony Ericsson), so my pleas are just being sent to the ether. ET phone home!

I missed my doctor’s appointment this morning more by accident than design, although I can’t deny a string subconscious urge to run in the opposite direction. I guess it’s not that subconscious then. I have a deep dislike of being poked and prodded with as much sensitivity as a mechanic shows the engine of pale blue Ford Sierra.

This early morning activity has quite worn me out. Three cups of tea later and I’m still leaning towards a nap. A power nap. A short nap. Forty winks. Mmmm.

Fush

Whoever said school days are the happiest days of your life must have been insane. First off because getting up at sparrow’s fart cannot make anyone happy unless they getting up to catch a flight to the Caribbean. Even though my school days are far behind me watching my children suffer the same ignominy has brought back many of the feelings of sheer helplessness and impotence.

The first day of school was survived by all. Just. So it was great to see their friends. Small boy aged 9 got in trouble for missing a choir session on the day I was released from hospital. Not just a stern talking to, but ritual public humiliation. Breaking my child’s spirit for something out of his control fills me with ire. Father went this morning and read them their fortunes.

My school mornings were fraught with panic that I would be late, which I inevitably was. I’d be hauled up in front of the school and “made an example of”. It didn’t matter that I tried to get my mother’s breakfast ready early, pack the car for her and turn on the engine to warm it up. The fact that I didn’t drag her into the car at gunpoint and force her to leave made me a weak and spineless child. As a result (combined with the inevitable horror of swimming lessons) as I watched the clock tick later and later I’d end up throwing up all over her car. I am damned if my children will suffer the same.

Small girl aged 5 has a new teacher. She doesn’t look old enough to drive let alone vote. How weirdly ageist and judgemental I have become. Still, I hope that under those blond bangs and innocent demeanour is a spine of steel. My daughter can sniff out weakness and exploit it in a fraction of a second. She already tried the crocodile tears yesterday and I saw her watching keenly under her lashes to ascertain the reaction. The teacher seems very sweet and hails for Durban. Small girl’s father spent a happy few minutes this morning trying to get her to say “Fush”. He arrived back home energised from the encounter.

Small boy aged 9 didn’t tell anyone about his motorbike because he didn’t think anyone would believe him. Small boy aged 6 seemed to be the only one who took everything in his stride. Thank god for small mercies. The upshot is I arrived home last night exhausted from day 2 at work to find Small girl tearstained and distraught, her oldest brother lying in the bath like a beached whale drowning himself in sulks and small boy aged 6 watching TV in an exhausted state of near coma. Small boy aged 9 had a migraine, my unfortunate legacy, and once happily drugged into sleep took over my kingsize bed. Coupled with books that have to covered (necessitating a trip to Carlos at the Spar for plastic wrap), school lunches and bag packing I ended up dreaming about school all night long.

The sound of the alarm going off in the darkness this morning did not fill me with sweet joy. I took a page from Small girl aged 5’s book and batted my eyelashes at her father who kindly did the school run so I could collapse back into my own bed for one more blessed hour’s sleep. I did achieve one thing yesterday in terms of maternal duty. Small girl aged 5 informed me that she has no desire to follow in my footsteps and go to Roedean, but rather she wants to go with her best friend to Auckland Park Primary. I duly went over and completed an application form that will no doubt go nowhere. The fact that the action was largely futile is irrelevant, at least I can tell her I tried.

My colleague is currently cutting out about two hundred Minnie Mouse’s for her niece’s 1st birthday as well as creating 50 odd colouring in books. The birthday is about 3 weeks time. My son’s birthday was last week and I have yet to even harbour thoughts about the party, which has morphed into an afternoon with some pals riding his bike. Yippee. I can handle that.

Damnation, my boss has given me the evil eye about time sheets again. I guess it time to fire up those creative juices and get imaginative.

Yay! Auckland Park Primary just called to offer Small girl an assessment! Is her happiness worth an extra 45 minute commute? Maybe the boys can take the bus.