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.