I do some volunteer hours at the school my kids go to. Being “retired” I have the time and it beats working, no matter the lack of remuneration.
I get to know some of the kids. I can tell when they’re happy or sad, when they’re ready for the day and when they need a little help.
There’s one guy I have gotten to know lately; call him Dennis. Dennis is a big kindergartener, looks like a first or second-grader. He moved here from the East Coast during the school year, so there were some adjustments to make. He seemed like a nice kid, and I got to know him a little better as the school year went on.
This is my second year with my own kids in school: I had one enter kindergarten last year, and my youngest this year, so I’m drawing just two years experience. What I have learned is that the first 3-4 months are a struggle, up until January rolls around. Then things start to gel, and by April and May, things are humming. Kids who are up and ready to work, willing to challenge themselves, just a joy to be around.
My experience matched that: earlier in the year, things were a little rough with rules to be learned and re-learned, skills to be reinforced, etc. Come the end of winter break and the turn of the year, and these same kids were driving the bus, not riding anymore.
My young friend Dennis was a hesitant reader and just a little awkward; he is bigger than most of his classmates and a new kid, into the bargain. He was a little behind the curve. But I was amazed to see his recent performance in reading and number recognition: he is reading a couple of levels above what he was just weeks earlier and on a flash card test of the numbers 1-50, he got them all with no effort.
Happenstance brought me in contact with his grandfather, who came one day to collect him from school. His grandmother was familiar to me, but he was far more talkative, almost garrulous. From him, I learned that Dennis’s parents are both quite brainy, PhD candidates, though they never married and now live on opposite coasts. He has his mother, a companion of some years, and the grandparents as his family. But I have never gotten a sense of security or comfort from this kid. He has never seemed to belong anywhere: his family, with four adults, should offer more resources, but that seems to be a bad assumption. Ironically, the grandfather was effusive in his praise of the longtime paramour, saying he was a better father than some birth fathers.
For instance, he has a tough time going into school when the bell rings and the classes line up. He’s often at the back of the line and doesn’t follow when everyone else goes in. Today, I could see he needed help: he was in tears and looked almost physically pained. I talked to him, and put my arm around his shoulder, and that was all it took. The tears went away, and as we walked into the building, he was giggling and asking for a piggyback ride. (Did I mention he’s a *big* kid?) I had pondered this over the past few weeks as I saw him after school: I had never seen anyone touch him at all, not to hold hands, or a hug or even an arm around his shoulder. Not even the guy who is supposed to be better than a birth father . . .
I followed up with the teacher later on, since we have known each other for two years now, and traded notes. I was stunned to learn that, early on in his time at his new school, he got a note sent home that he had a rough day and might need a little more attention. The next day he came in and said that he was sent to his room without supper as a result: obviously, no more feedback has gone home, as a result of that. He also takes criticism or corrections of any kind far too hard and gives the impression he’s become accustomed to a pretty stern environment — possibly more heavy-handed than he needs.
So here we have a bright kid who has endured a lot of changes this year — moving to a new place, going to a new school, leaving his father behind and moving to a new home — and made great strides in spite of all that. Since I heard the “bed without supper” story, I have thought of little else. Why do some people have kids at all? And here I am late on a Friday night, still thinking about it. Is it asking too much to love your own child, to help him and make him feel safe and secure while you teach him right from wrong, good from bad?
I wish I had figured this out earlier in the year: school breaks up in two weeks, and I hope the summer isn’t just a morass of neglect and fear for him.