"I Can Do Hard Things"

Sitting at the kitchen table, attempting to drink a few gallons of coffee (because Insomnia is a Callous Bitch),  I heard my oldest caterwauling, "HELP! Mommy! I can't do it!"

I took another sip, braced myself, and then felt my ears melt down the sides of my head.

My son may be a masculine little dude, but he can squeal with the best of them.

I eventually walked into the bedroom. Owen was on the floor, attempting to wrestle out of his pajama top. One arm was dangling freely, but he had managed to twist the other arm into a straitjacket-worthy knot.  His face was red, and he had clearly shut down. 

I attempted to walk him through the motions of taking off his shirt. I would like to say that I had the patience of an occupational therapist, or the empathy of a preschool teacher, but I didn't. My voice cut through the room as I groaned, "Just bend your elbow, Owen! You're making this harder than it is!"

Naturally, this only added to his perceived stress, and he responded, "This is TOO HARD!"

I heard my mother's voice come out of my mouth and I said, "Sweetie. You can do hard things."

***
I've been doing some editing work recently which discusses self-efficacy, which is the belief that one is capable--that one can do hard things. Although the work in question involved teaching and education, I naturally transferred the information to my present situation.

How do I make efficacious children? How do I teach my sons that they can do hard things?

This is not the same thing as the "everybody gets a trophy" mentality of self-esteem. When people have high self-efficacy, they believe in their capabilities, because they have experienced success. Success, thus, builds success.

If I do not help create efficacious children, I have not done my job as a parent. I feel that strongly about it.

***
As a child, I was classified as "gifted" and placed in special programs for reading and language. Now that I've been a teacher, I recognize that I was probably not gifted at all, just verbal.

Nevertheless, I was taught from an early age that I was smart and capable and special. I could do hard things without even trying.

So, not surprisingly, the first time I had to try anything, I had no coping skills. I remember as clear as day, sitting in math class. The teacher was explaining a concept and as she talked, I felt my heart race, my palms grow sweaty---all of the classic signs of panic. I sat at my desk, rubbing my eraser back and forth along the desk until it was nothing but rubbery ash.

Tears pricked my eyes. "Stupid," I mumbled to myself. "This is stupid. I hate math."

This belief stayed with me for about thirty years. It shaped my career pathway, and my life choices. Just the other day, I turned down a part-time job teaching GED classes, because I didn't feel confident enough to teach basic algebra.

The fact of the matter is, I never was successful at math because I didn't believe I could do it.

I didn't even try.

I needed to be taught how to try hard things. 

***
When I see the boys retreat into learned helplessness or rage at me in frustration, I need to remember that self-efficacy is nurtured, not assumed. I did some research, and I am going to try to develop self-efficacy in the following ways:

Provide Kids with Reasonable Responsibilities

The boys are fully capable of picking up their toys, putting their dirty clothes in the washing machine, and clearing their plates. I hold them to it.

When my oldest wants to earn extra money, I have him vacuum the carpet or mop my floor. He also shakes out rugs, dusts, and cleans the sliding glass door.

I'll hire him out for the right price.

Model Problem-Solving

When learned helplessness rears its ugly head, I sit with them and break the tasks down into steps. Admittedly, I get testy more often than I should, as demonstrated by the Great Shirt Freakoutgate of This Morning. 

Yet, more often than not, I resist the urge to do the hard things for my kids, and I try to model ways that they can solve their problems.

I encourage  them to ask for their own ketchup at restaurants. I ask them how they will wash their hands in public restrooms when they can't reach the sink.

I hope I keep this resolve when it comes to the science fair projects and three-dimensional dioramas in their future.

Allow Kids to Make Decisions


I firmly believe that you don't let kids make all the decisions. The boys eat what I make them, or they don't eat. We don't discuss going the gym, because my need to run is more important than their need to make a six-foot Lego tower. However, we do include the boys in low-stake decision making. Do you want a grilled cheese or macaroni? Do you want to wear your Crocs or your shoes? Do you want to go up the stairs right side up or upside down?

Right now, it's the little things. But I believe it all matters.

Unlocking Gifts

I just re-started my computer after it was doing a strange typing language all of its own. Letters were added or dropped or capitalized so a word would look like: mdasfpafhjtjklath when I meant to write "muffin."

I called Paul at work, a maelstrom raging in my chest, and the phone kept hanging up on me.

At this point, I felt like a character in that terrible movie Maximum Overdrive. In this film, the machines rise up against the hapless humans. It also features an all AC/DC soundtrack. My brother, naturally, loved this film almost as much as he loved Dune and Big Trouble in Little China.

Did I have a point? Ah yes. Me get frustrated quickly. Like caveman.

It made me think about the ways that we are all smart. Howard Gardner, the Multiple Intelligence Guru, talks about not if we are smart, but how we are smart. It makes so much sense to me. I am not a logical, detail-oriented person, so at the first sign of computer issues, I freaked out and called Paul, who calmly said, "Why don't you restart it?"

Oh. Right. Paul is so logical, so patient, and so detail-oriented, which makes him a perfect counterpoint to my big-idea, impulsive, dreamy perspective.

I'll tell Paul, "I would like to go camping this summer." While I am daydreaming about mountain landscapes and fresh, icy-blue lakes,  Paul is doing a cost-analysis of the best tents, referencing Consumer Reports and the comments on Amazon.com.

People would suggest that Paul's type of smart is more functional in the world---and yes, that very well may be true---but my kind of smart makes it a world worth living.

Gardner talks about spatial intelligence, which makes me think of my father-in-law, a man who hated school from the first moment and doesn't want me to see his writing. His deeply-instilled fear of evil English teachers and their Red Pens of Doom is no joke. He was taught from a very young age that he was "not smart."

This same man can fix any engine. He can unlock the systems of a motor and instantly understand the intricate dance of the gears. He fashions quick fixes out of wires and gum, and can competently do any mechanical task. I am humbled by his intelligence.

It's early, and I don't want to label my children, but I can tell that both boys learn best by doing. Owen is very logical, and he likes the cause and effect of experimentation. He is visual, and I suspect will do very well in traditional school.

Joel? Yes, he is not even two, but I already suspect that he will require some creative teachers to tap his skills. I don't think he's a verbal kid, in regards to sitting and listening. His learning will be messy, interactive, and relevant.

As a educator, I will have to allow my children to own their education. They need to learn that they are smart, and being smart means finding methods of learning that suit their needs.

Yes, there will be teachers that try to stuff them in boxes, toe the line, and check off the boxes. Part of being smart is learning how to deal with that.

But, at home, as they do their homework, study for tests, and make meaning of the world, it will be their challenge (and mine), to channel their natural intelligences, and let the world unfold like a daffodil.


What do you think? How do your children use their gifts? How do you encourage them? What are your (and their) struggles?

End of Story

I woke up this morning, and there wasn't a drop of coffee in the house. No grounds. No leftover swill in the bottom of the carafe. No-thing.

This made me very testy.

I told Owen he was eating his grapes too loudly. I muttered mild swear words under my breath when I couldn't find Joel's brand new shoe. (Which, by the way, I finally found in the recycle bin. Joel apparently thinks this bin is made of magic and moonbeams, so I will look there first from this point forward.) And, in a moment that makes me especially proud, I stood in a parking lot and told my preschooler to stop "flapping his gums and get [his] butt out of the car."

Perhaps Owen will learn better language and behavior at preschool. The bad influence, I fear, is looking right at me in the bathroom mirror.

Anyway, I got my coffee, and we went to the library. These are two things that never fail to improve my mood. At the library, I ran into a friend of mine. She is awesome times infinity. Her son has autism, and she was telling me about his experiences and some of the things that teachers have done to help him out.

One of the things a teacher did was mark squares on the carpet with tape for "circle time." This provided a boundary for kids, a safety zone for those who needed it. The teacher also used this strategy so that kids with ADHD were close to the teacher, and kids who needed space were towards the back of the room. Here's the key to this strategy: it was easy, and she used it for everybody.

And this-this-is what kills me about some teachers--the basic lack of creativity and problem-solving. I'm not talking about the teacher in this example--quite the opposite. She found a way to meet the needs of her entire class, without singling kids out or making things harder than they needed to be. She didn't do something "special" for the kids with IEPs, or 504s, or whatever acronym you wish to use. She helped out every kid, simply by using some creative thinking.

One of the things that frustrated me about teaching were the annual meetings with the special education teachers to discuss accommodations. Accommodations, for those not in education-land, are the steps or practices teachers are asked to do to help certain students be successful. They include things like, "seat student towards the front of the room," "repeat directions, if asked," or "extra time on tests, as needed."

These are not unreasonable demands. But, OH! the grumbles and howls from these teachers! The whining! The excuses! You would think these were the most ridiculous requests ever. These meetings made me so depressed and frustrated. I couldn't believe that people found it so difficult to show a little empathy or, God Forbid, think outside of the box a bit.

And incidentally--these accommodations are LEGALLY MANDATED. They aren't up for discussion.

I'm not here to teacher-bash. For every bad teacher, there are many more caring, wonderful ones. And, I know that there are accommodations that are either outdated or just plain abused. In particular, I once had a student with sensory issues that had a "Take a break" pass. The idea was that he was to use the pass, no questions asked, whenever the environment became too stimulating for him. This was to prevent meltdowns.

As a concept, it's wonderful. Kids, especially students with these kinds of issues, need to learn healthy self-regulation strategies to be successful in school, and in life. This kid, however, was not over-stimulated by anything, except for, perhaps, his girlfriend. He attempted to use his pass each day, coincidentally during her lunch period.

One call to his very cool, with-it mother, and he no longer felt so overwhelmed in my class.

But, you see, I didn't blame this issue on his IEP. I looked at the larger issue and figured out a solution. That is what I see good teachers do.

They teach in different ways---using visuals, lists, music, movement, and conversation---not because it helps the kids with IEPS or 504s, but because it helps everybody.

They employ subtle strategies---grouping certain kids together because it is a mutually beneficial arrangement, seating charts, general vs. specific checks for understanding---not because it helps the kids with IEPS or 504s, but because it helps everybody.

They work with the special educators, and learn strategies, such as ways to make a worksheet less overwhelming---not because it helps the kids with IEPS or 504s, but because it helps everybody.

And finally, good teachers just get it. I mean, any person who has ever learned to ski, or dance, or play an instrument, or speak another language, has encountered a suffocating, powerless frustration. (If you've never felt this feeling, then you're too perfect to be reading this blog--away with you and your perfection!) Good teachers never forget that power of frustration, and take it as a moral and personal responsibility to temper this frustration, and make it more manageable.

I may be ranting here, but this really touches my core. People need to be cared for. And if the caring comes in different ways for different people, than that's just what needs to happen. End of story.

My Real Boys

Back when I was teaching, I remember one student, Rachel, who was shy times infinity. I mean, the girl did not talk. Ever. Her classmates answered for her when I took attendance, and I didn't hear more than three words out of her until December. She wrote beautifully, and managed to have a social life. Maybe she was an accomplished mime-- that's my only explanation for how she managed to make friends without speaking at all.

Naturally, as her teachers, we were concerned. We wondered if this was a phobia, a reaction to something unspeakable, or if this was Just Rachel. Thus, we scheduled a conference with her father, Mr. Clueless McDenial.

"My Rachel is quiet?" he said, as if he had not had this same conversation every year of her schooling. "I can't shut her up at home. She's constantly talking over her brother and sister! I'm going to go home and tell her she needs to speak up."

Although this appeared to be the Most Pointless Conference of All Time, her father was right. It took about five months, but Rachel found her voice. She smiled. She whispered. She occasionally raised her hand. And around April, I found myself saying, "Rachel. Enough jibber-jabber. Get to work." (When I was teaching, I enjoyed using the occasional Mr. T colloquialism.)

Rachel just needed time to warm up.

I think of Rachel's dad now as I look at my own boys. The Owen and Joel I describe in these posts are My Real Boys--the boys I see every day, the boys I love. Yet, when we go out in public, my Impostor Boys come out from the shadows.

Real Owen will play by himself for long stretches, making imaginary rooms and tractors out of boxes. Impostor Owen will plant himself right next to me during play dates, taking away my oxygen and whining, "Moooommmmmmmmmmmy Pl-lay with me!"

Real Owen will give Joel pieces of his pumpkin muffin or say, "Love you, Mommy!" just because. Impostor Owen will rip toys out of his friends' hands.

Real Joel splashes in his baby pool and plays independently. Impostor Joel is only content when he is resting on my rapidly-growing-numb arm. Real Joel waves and smiles. Impostor Joel hides his head when strangers approach.

As I write these things, I realize that these "impostor" behaviors are just as much a part of my children as the positive ones. I also understand that my kids will naturally be the happiest and the most confident when they are in their own environment.

But here's my fear: I worry that the adults in my boys' lives--the teachers, leaders, other mothers---will only see the Impostor Boys, and never see my Real Boys. I worry that they, too, will be quick to judge, to label, to assume.

I hope that I can be like Rachel's father when I'm sitting in the parent conference, or the IEP, or whatever comes our way. I hope that I will know my kids--both their "real" and "impostor" aspects--and advocate for them. Mostly, I want to be enough of an adult that the conferences are not all about me, and my potential embarrassment.

And so, I hope that if a young teacher snarkily labels me "Clueless McDenial," I will rise above my need to defend, and instead work with her to raise my flawed and beautiful Real Boys.