the growing edge

Adam Gopnik wrote recently in The New Yorker about learning to draw. In describing the psychological difficulties involved, he articulated something I've noted often since becoming a parent: we adults have the luxury of simply avoiding those things we don't do well (or don't know how to do at all, and would rather not suffer the humiliations required to learn them). When you spend a lot of time with children - or, in this case, attempt to pick up a new skill in adulthood - you remember what it's like: "I was filled with feelings of helplessness and stupidity and impotence that I had not experienced since elementary school. Why was I so unable to do something so painfully simple?"

Of course that uncomfortable confrontation with our limits begins long before elementary school. Young children are asked to learn so much, every day, and some things are inevitably more challenging than others. Cowardly grown up that I am, I tend to take long, meandering routes around any foreign task smacking of difficulty in my path. My kids, however, don't enjoy the same degree of navigational control.

I'm sure I've made reference to the growing edge in previous posts. I learned the expression years ago from a psychologist who talked about the comfort zone, the pain zone, and that perfect in-between where change and development happen: the growing edge. Children live on the growing edge all the time. It's their job. As parents, we ideally support them in finding that slippery place, somewhere between complacent ease and a difficulty so great as to actually impede growth. But how to know where the lines are?

On his first day of soccer camp, Gabriel clung to my arm, begged to be picked up, and cried. He sat down on the field and refused to participate. When he was finally coaxed into playing by his kindly, energetic coach imported from the UK (who could refuse that accent?), he edged onto the field, then immediately burst into tears when another kid kicked over the cone he'd been considering kicking over himself. That was it. Done for the day.

Frances has soccer camp before Gabriel, so every morning we sit in the shade and watch her play with the bigger kids on a beach towel before his camp begins. Yesterday I brought books and crayons, and today I brought a box of Legos. Gabriel and the other younger siblings share toys, climb in and out of their mother's laps, and gradually wilt in the heat. It's a lovely scene, and it's something Gabriel knows how to do. He's a champ at Legos and reading books with me. It feels good; it comes easily. Not so resisting using his hands when it comes to playing with an enticingly big ball.

Day two was slightly better. I resorted to bribery, and promised a video after nap time if he would participate. He joined in for about two-thirds of the hour-long camp, but I could see the immense psychological and physical effort it required. There were more tears. I stood nearby, and watched the coach bark "No, no Gabriel, stop crying, you can do this!" and somehow he pushed through the awful feelings and kept going. It may have been the first time an adult responded that way to his tears. He's used to his mama and his maternal teachers at school, who wrap their arms around him and listen as he talks about his feelings. This was entirely different. Apparently there are no I statements on the soccer field.

Weirdly, it didn't bother me. I think it might have been a positive change. But was it the pain zone? Knowing our limits is so hard; knowing our children's limits is even harder. How do we know when a challenge is too painful for a kid to tolerate? On Monday and Tuesday I was tempted to let him observe camp from the safety of my lap - firmly in the comfort zone - but some other part of me felt it was important to encourage his independence. (Which just barely outweighed the part of me that yearned to hoist him onto my hip, wipe away his tears, and tell him he never has to do soccer camp again. But oh, friends! He is a baby no longer.)

Today, Wednesday, was the best morning yet. There were more pleas to play in the shade with Legos instead of play in the sun on the field, but he did it. For the first time, he allowed himself to become engaged and consequently felt proud of his swift kicks. He cried too, but not as often, and not as tragically. The truth is that life on the growing edge does involve some pain. Learning something new is so hard that it hurts - at least a little. So this morning, watching Gabriel play from eight feet away (instead of right next to him), I didn't worry too much about pushing him past his limits. He's pretty resilient, after all.

But I did bribe him again, with ice cream after lunch. I wanted to reward the Herculean efforts he is making at First Kicks soccer camp; I wanted him to know how great it is to try something even when it's scary and hard.

But in retrospect, I think maybe he didn't need ice cream to know that.

now we are six

Yesterday, 9 am: the chocolate beet cupcakes were cooling (what better way to ensure some of the garden beets make it into my children's bellies?), the kale that was destined to be oiled, salted, and roasted that evening was harvested, my coffee was sitting cold on the counter, and Frances had opened all her presents.

The birthday was well under way, yet already the happy tide was turning. We had plans to participate later in a homemade science camp organized by a group of local mothers. Over the summer, each family will host at least once, planning a science activity for all the kids. Sounds fun, right? Frances had been on the fence about going for the first time on her birthday, since we only know one of the families involved, but when she heard we were going to play with bubbles she couldn't resist.

Until ten minutes before we were supposed to go. "I think I'm going to hate science camp," she told me. "We can't go." Huh? That was followed by predictions of encountering the meanest kids ever there, and comments of the "bubbles are dumb anyway" ilk. Well. I tried and failed to shake her out of it, herded the children into the car with cupcakes and sunscreen in hand, and steeled myself.

Her behavior was atrocious. As the host mother explained activities, she would sigh loudly, looking up at me accusingly and saying things like "I told you I wouldn't like this." She was trying pretty hard to be a jerk, but anyone could see the tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. I was increasingly mad at her, and also sad, not to mention completely embarrassed before the other mothers, none of whom I had met before. I couldn't bring myself to make eye contact with any of them for more than a fleeting second, which was easy because so much of my attention was focused on preventing Frances from ruining the bubble fun for everyone else. She asked to go home; I refused. Her brother was having fun, and I held out hope that things might yet turn around.

When the structured part of the morning was over, the kids ran wild in the yard. Frances continued to channel a negative little troll on the swing set, interpreting every delayed turn as further confirmation of the horrific nature of science camp. But then I watched a big-hearted little girl named Elise run after her, offering a hug and a turn with the bubble machine. Frances collapsed into her skinny arms. It took my breath away. Elise melted the hardness in Frances in a way I never could have. Thank goodness for the kindness of strangers.

Then Frances found a new friend in Portia, who had also just turned six. The two of them hit it off and played beautifully for the rest of the morning. As I watched them, my own brittleness gave way. I was able to sit and chat with the other mothers. When Frances began to play nice, I relaxed and found I could too.

The rest of the day was just great. Though Frances walked the line of birthday enthusiasm, every so often losing her footing and stumbling into the land of birthday grubbiness, it was all okay. I forgave her without effort; love triumphed. The two of us were able to swim at the pool while Gabriel napped, then we all welcomed five of her favorite grown up friends over for a big celebratory dinner with more presents and ice cream. Oh, and those kale chips! (Which, I am pleased to report, she requested specifically for the occasion.)

Sitting back in my chair at dinner last night, surveying the wealth of excellent friends and good food before me, I was reminded of our first weeks in Annapolis. Frances had just turned three. Night after night, it was just us, a disoriented foursome in our impersonal, white-walled kitchen. The social situation in our new friendless town could only be described as impoverished. How it weighed upon Frances! She kept asking if could we please have some friends over for dinner tonight?  Or could we go to a friend's house instead?  It broke my heart to tell her we didn't have any friends to invite, or be invited by. Those were lonely times. When I remember them, palpable gratitude flows through my limbs. The kindness of strangers - and new and old friends - brought me through. How much has changed in three short years! 

papa's day

 

I keep thinking about kids and language development, ever since my last post. Last night, I was cheek to cheek with Frances, reading poems from Old Possom's Book of Practical Cats and watching my husband wrestle with Gabriel while rhyming silly made up words, tickling his tender growing mind and body in a beautiful all-mixed-up kind of way. Halfway through the tale of Jennyanydots, I realized something. Mike is our family's deepest well of words. He models love and care of language - for all three of us - like no one else.  

I went to work when Frances was three months old, and Mike stayed home to take care of her. We were in a new place, and I was starting a new job. It wasn't so very unlike what I went through when we moved to Annapolis shortly after Gabriel was born, which is to say it was pretty hard. Mike and Frances took a lot of long walks, becoming acquainted with every homeless person in Lancaster City (at least by sight) and making occasional stops at coffee shops. I can imagine the two of them now, Frances napping in her stroller, parked next to Mike reading intently at a cafe table. 

It's hard to say why exactly, but I know those early days together had a profound impact on Frances's relationship to books. Her papa was always reading, and when he wasn't reading silently to himself, he was reading aloud to her. From the time she was born, she heard anything and everything (including the New Yorker, in gentle tones, during her infancy). 

I read a study once that concluded whether children see their parents reading is even more determinative than being read to themselves when it comes to predicting who will become a reader in adulthood. I sometimes tease Mike about his ability to read philosophy, novels, magazines - anything - in the middle of a room filled with loud, chaotic children. But I see now, more and more as our children grow, how much they admire and emulate his relationship to books. They sometimes climb up on the couch with a big book (Merriam-Webster Children's Dictionary is a good one) and quietly study each page, looking remarkably like their papa.

But I don't want to suggest that Mike's relationship to language is merely studious. He is a great lover of poetry, rhyme, hip hop and rhythm, and will flawlessly recite lyrics learned watching Yo MTV Raps in 1989 at the breakfast table with infectious glee. He freestyles to the kids about getting ready for bed. He plays rhyming games with Gabriel, taught Frances the concept of metaphor at age 3 using fabulous examples, and happily encourages me in my every writing endeavor. Things get serious when it comes to grammar, and sometimes I get grumpy and limply protest his corrections, but the kids' pride never seems to get in the way with that stuff. They want to know. Because besides being a model reader and lover of language, Mike is a gifted teacher. I watch him teach the kids in awe. He is patient, he is steady; he excites their passion for learning about the world.

A good man is hard to find. A good man who is also a loving, strong papa and an excellent giver of words is that much harder to find. This little family of mine is a wonder. Happy Father's Day, Mike.

an excess of words

I cannot tell you why I began reading Alexsandar Hemon's piece in the current issue of the New Yorker, besides the fact that I think he's a fantastic writer (who happens to possess a particularly compelling biography), and that it was about his young children. But really. Why? I mean, it's the Summer Fiction issue! There are so many other things to read; so many things that do not include the words "my baby" and "cancer." But I started reading, and then I could not stop, and now here I am, grieving along with him.

What made the piece bearable was his reflections on language and story, gleaned from observing his eldest daughter at age almost-three, who told constant, rambling tales of her imaginary friend Mingus throughout her little sister's illness. Stepping back to think about stories is how a reader finds enough air to breathe and thus survive this tale of family tragedy.

Hemon talks about how children process the mysteries of daily life through stories. Imaginary friends can take on all the strong emotions children feel and actually do something with them. Those insights are familiar territory. But then Hemon suggests something more which I found striking: between the ages of two and four, children acquire language at such a fast and furious rate that they cannot possibly have sufficient personal experience to connect with it all. They turn to imagination and story to give all the words a home. Young children naturally want to use all the extraordinary power they are steadily accumulating with each and every new word. In exercising their new linguistic capabilities, bizarre tales ensue.

Dister Lister comes to mind. And Gabriel's superhero universe, which features The Crane (pictured above), some bad guys named The Switch and The Drip, and a terrifying place where bad guys must be sent called the Cracker Mill. It's why I love to transcribe the kids' stories on occasion; they are so inventive, so off-the-wall, so very strange - not unlike good art. It's cool to think that that creative boundlessness has to do with a developmental excess of words. It's an overflow of language that kids need only reach out to collect with jars, cups, pots, and bare hands; anything that might work to catch it all, and make it theirs.

It's a state of affairs that is most dramatic in early childhood, when nothing is old hat and everything from beetles to elevator buttons is a new, engrossing puzzle to ponder. Marry that sense of wonder with an acquisition of language that barrels along daily at a whiplash-inducing pace and you have the makings of some awesome poetry. The way children describe their actual and imaginary worlds can be downright arresting in its weirdness. They see everything fresh, and describe it with words that are equally fresh. Their words have not yet found their place in common phrases, in cliches, in abstract associations - they simply come into existence, as perfect and startlingly singular as a goldfinch alighting on the wildflowers in the garden.

Last night Gabriel and I were sitting on the floor of his room. I had joined him because he was lying there in grumpy protest against bedtime. I asked him how he was feeling. We ended up talking about all the different feelings we both have ('grown ups don't cry!') and he kept asking me for more and more feeling words. Running low on classic examples, I asked him if he ever felt ridiculous. He looked at me, thinking hard, and asked, "Do you mean when someone else has a cookie and you wish you had one too?" No, that's feeling envious, I explained. Gabriel's face lit up. "I feel envious when Didi gets a toy from her school!" Done. Now he's tucked that one away. Next?

As we grow - in theory anyway - the excess of words situation remains unchanged. We don't learn words anywhere near the pace that we once did, but we have accumulated quite a few by adulthood, and they can't possibly all map onto our direct experiences of the world. And we are still in need of help processing the mysteries of daily life, right? Yet the world seems to smooth us out, and make our language and vision normal when they were once blessedly weird. Not so artists, perhaps. How is it that they are able to hang onto the strangeness of things, to find unique places to put all those words? Here is what Hemon says about it:

"...I recognized in a humbling flash that she was doing exactly what I'd been doing as a writer all these years: the fictional characters in my books had allowed me to understand what was hard for me to understand (which, so far, has been nearly everything). Much like Ella, I'd found myself with an excess of words, the wealth of which far exceeded the pathetic limits of my own biography. I'd needed narrative space to extend myself into; I'd needed more lives."

Not that I need my kids to be fiction writers, but it does seem to me that the world is richer, fuller, more meaningful - a place replete with spiritual and creative potential - if we retain that awareness of language as overflowing. Harboring an excess of words seems like a good way to stay in tune with our essential humanity as we grow older. Isn't it cool to think that one of the most essential roles we play as parents is Giver of Words? In conversation, in books, in songs, we keep on watering the fountain. And all the while we are given the gift of delight in return, watching as their cups runneth over. 

finding our rhythm

It's been ages since I've had the feeling that hit me with considerable force today, leaving me limp and bewildered in its wake. It was the how-can-it-be-only-10:30-in-the-morning experience, the what-in-the-world-will-I-do-with-this-kid-until-naptime moment; a dark realization that my bag of tricks is empty, and a longing to lean on the fast forward button. (Yes the one on the VCR, so I can listen contentedly to the video cassette tape whirring along).

Lately Gabriel is confronting his limitations, and he doesn't like it one bit. Who can blame him? It's as if his mind is racing ahead, conceptualizing things he would like to do, and the rest of him hasn't caught up yet. He'll be peacefully drawing on the kitchen floor, sprawled on his belly with many versions of wheeled vehicles scattered on scrap paper all around him, until he suddenly utters a piercing shout of despair. He'll yell out, This doesn't look like a double decker bus! and crumple up his drawing, throwing it across the room.

After what seems like a lot of busy, purposeful days with Gabriel, we found ourselves with nothing on the agenda this morning. I suggested we take out his scooter. Midway down the block, he insisted on taking out his bike instead. All was going well, until I gently reminded him about pedaling backwards to brake.

I don't like to do that. I like to go in the grass to stop.

Five minutes later, Gabriel is barreling down the hill. He decides to go for a grass-assisted brake, loses his balance on the bumpy weeds and winds up on the sidewalk with a bloody knee and his bike on top of him. Oh, he was mad. Terribly embarrassed. And seriously pissed at me for having witnessed the whole thing. So yes, it was a bad time to bring up the back pedal thing again.

I. DON'T. LIKE. TO. DO. THAT.

He is kicking the bike. He is crying and ripping at his helmet. We have a little fight about the need to wear his helmet when riding. He refuses and begins to cry harder. I start walking his miniature red bicycle with flames painted on the sides slowly up the sidewalk, listening to the sound of his angry sobbing behind me which is punctuated every so often by a context-less yet emphatic NO.

This is the miserable point in the story when I start to wonder when naptime will come, and how I might facilitate its speedy arrival. It is 98 degrees out, and we are a sorry sight.

When we make it home, we both drink some water. I observe that the plants in the front yard must be thirsty too, especially the herbs that Gabriel and I planted together.

Could we give them some water now?

What a fine idea! Why, yes we could. And suddenly we were working together, walking to and from the rain barrel, watering and weeding the herbs, talking to them and apologizing for not thinking of them sooner in this awful heat. That somehow led to filling the loader of a new-to-us enormous old plastic tractor with water from the hose, and dumping it into a wheelbarrow, and then dumping that into a pink plastic storage box fetched from the garage. Then the obvious thing to do was to take off all Gabriel's clothes so he could get into the pink plastic tub, a spot from which he could easily fill a small orange pitcher, step over the edge, and trot purposefully to slake the thirst of the nearby flowers and beans in the garden.

It is hard to explain how running back and forth between a pink plastic tub and the garden in nothing but a pair of blue Crocs for all the neighborhood to see could be so dignifying. But it was. We were making a contribution! Gabriel watered and I weeded. There was something at stake in our coordinated efforts.

And then somehow it was already noon. We were hot and sweaty, but before we went in I picked a big bunch of kale to roast for lunch. Peanut butter and jelly and kale chips. It totally works.

 

We had gone from pushing and pulling each other to being in sync, to relishing a spontaneous rhythm. We were moving along inside that easy kind of flow that you can get swept up in sometimes, when time takes a back seat. Who knows how you got there to begin with? If that mysterious transition from jerky, strained movement to effortless flow had been in the context of writing a story or painting a picture, I might have said the muse paid me a visit. But what do you say when its relational? It was our mojo, it was grace, it was a fairy whose special job in the world is sprinkling people who love each other with magic dust so that they might join together anew with fresh affection and delight.

All I know is that it had nothing to do with will. Rather it had to do with both of us letting go of our wills - probably because we were so beat down by a rough tantrum in the heat that we lost interest in forcing our agendas further. However we got there, it was good. Oh, there were more tense moments and near-tantrums. That's just where we're at these days. But I had the memory of our harmonious garden interlude, our gift from the fairies. 

Gabriel has been railing at his limits, but this morning was a reminder for me that our limits are not the end of the story. Not even close. Love can transcend them, opening our gates wide even when we would rather they remain shut! It is mystifying, isn't it?

Whether you are coaxing words onto a page or a child out of a car seat today, here's wishing you some of that mysterious mojo, that fairy dust that can make you forget time altogether. Thank you, as ever, for reading.

a surprise gift

I was packing Frances's lunch this morning, envisioning a round of pleasant errands with Gabriel after the big girl left for school and listening to Mike practicing hurdles with her one last time in the backyard before her very first Field Day commenced later that morning. The competition had been looming for her ever since a practice round of some of the events in gym class last week; from her tearful description of the impossibly high hurdles and her complete inability to clear them, Mike and I feared for her. (And truth be told, for us: the self-hating tantrum is the very worst sort to endure, as my mother will attest).  

But then something happened that slid my grocery-shopping plans right off the table: a friend called and asked if Frances might like a massive wooden roll-top desk for her room. Katie and Chester, of Taco Sunday fame, live down the street and already do so much to encourage my daughter's creative gifts. They especially like her poetry. They thought she might like a new surface on which to compose.

And so that was my day! It began with Gabriel, walking to their house to take measurements and confirm that we wanted the desk. It continued with Gabriel and Chester, going back and forth in the big old station wagon with parts of the desk, extra screws, and a stowaway spider in one of the drawers.

Then we moved shelves, swept odd playing cards and plastic beads out of the way, dusted and cleaned the desk, and re-assembled it in all its weighty adult glory right in the middle of Frances's decidedly little girl bedroom. Gabriel helped enthusiastically, gathering his toy tools just in case and dusting alongside me with great determination. He especially loved the desk before the top went back on for its resemblance to a fox's den. At least, it seemed that way to him.

There, you just missed him! He's popping his head down inside the den.

And back up again, taking a picture of me as I take one of him.

I spent nap time racing to finish an article that was due last week and racing to nestle the piles of notes and drawings, old brochures, sketches for new board games, abandoned craft projects, and stickers that had long lost their stick that spilled out of Frances's shelves and drawers in all the furniture moving deep into the bottom of the recycling bin. I tucked some of her treasures into the little wooden boxes and slid the very best of her stories and pictures into the desk drawers. Then Gabriel woke up, I emailed the article, and we went to pick Frances up at school.

She threw her pink backpack into the backseat, settled into her booster seat, and announced that she had received two third place ribbons at Field Day.

That's great! I said.

No, it isn't! It's terrible!

Oh dear. She was feeling pretty bad. She ranted a bit. I kept quiet mostly, because arguing is pointless, and plus, we'd be home soon. As we pulled into the driveway I told her to check her room for a surprise. It is not every five year old girl who would whoop with joy to see an enormous roll-top desk, up until a few days ago used by a tutor at St. John's College with a penchant for French cuisine, Leibniz, and Dostoevsky, smack in the middle of her bedroom with lots of blank sheets of paper and pencils lying on top, just waiting. But I knew Frances would. 

And she did. And then she forgot about everything else, and wrote and read at her desk until dinner.