Yesterday was Monday, which meant Lucas had gymnastics class at the Y. Here's a little snapshot of our 4th class:
- The children are moving through an obstacle course in a counterclockwise direction, moving from one obstacle to the next. Lucas is sampling obstacles willy-nilly, selecting the ones he likes and refusing to try others. (After the 3rd class last week, I gave up trying to get him to go in the same direction as the rest of the kids, and just focused on keeping him from bonking into anyone.)
- Miss Kelsie excitedly says, "Lucas, do you want to try a forward roll?" Lucas answers, "No, I don't." He walks away.
- It's parachute time. After refusing to participate for the first two weeks of class, today he manages to make it half-way through before losing interest and wandering off to inspect the hula hoops.
- The rest of the kids are jumping joyfully into the "marshmallow pit" (a big squishy "lake" filled with soft foam cubes). Lucas is still suspicious and refuses to join them.
- He kills it on the trampoline, though. Saving grace.
Everyone else seemed to be following directions. Everyone else seemed eager to cooperate with Miss Kelsie and try the trick of the week. Everyone else liked the marshmallow pit. How could a kid not love the marshmallow pit?
This is just the beginning of learning to handle ourselves among "everyone else." What I mean by this, specifically, is that it's the beginning of me learning to handle the fact that Lucas is probably not going to go with the flow like everyone else. I am constantly reminding myself that this isn't a competition. I have to bite my lip to keep from urging him to look at the other kids and do what they do. And even though I'm conscious of the inherent gifts of his nonlinear, intuitive mind, I still forget sometimes that this also means he's not going to do things in an A to B to C manner.
As with anything in life, it seems there is a careful balance to be found between respecting his way of being and giving him free reign to do as he pleases. In gymnastics class, I'm still there with him to say, "No, you don't have to try a cartwheel today, but Miss Kelsie would probably appreciate it if you said, 'No thank you, I'm not ready yet.'" I'm still there with him when he wanders away from the parachute to let him know it's okay if he doesn't want to do the parachute activities, but it's not okay to run off and join the cute girls doing floor routines in the other class.
I know he feels respected by my gentle redirections. I know his preferences are being honored, and at the same time, reasonable boundaries are being reinforced. That's because I know him, I love him, and I respect who he is.
When (if) I send him to preschool in September, who will know him, love him and respect him enough to walk that just-right balance with him? Surely, I can't be alone in this fear. I worry that in someone else's eyes, Lucas' gifts will be seen as shortcomings; that his strength of character will be seen as willfulness; that his nonlinear, creative thinking will be seen as an inability to follow simple directions; that his delightful energy and talkativeness will be interpreted as hyperactivity.
I worry that he'll get in trouble for being who he is. And I won't be there to reframe it for him or for his teacher.
No one wants to be "That Mom" who shows up at school telling the teachers how special her child is and how they should adjust the way they do their job with her particular child.
But …
I think I'm going to have to be that mom. When I weigh the costs of my embarrassment at possibly being singled out as the crazy one with the costs of Lucas being misunderstood and internalizing that there's something wrong with him, it's just not worth it to stay quiet. He's just a tiny little guy. I'm the mom. I'm his best advocate. If I don't stand up for him, who will?
Here's my plan in a nutshell: I'm going to talk with his teacher before school starts and explain what I do at home that works well for him (gentle redirection and keeping his busy mind engaged), and what doesn't work well for him (punishment, shaming, harsh voice). I'm going to request that she please try to use the former approach, if she doesn't already do so, or else she'll be witness to some major meltdowns. I'll certainly go over his peanut allergy with her. I may or may not go into some of his other sensitivities, depending on her receptivity. I may need to take a gradual approach, starting with the most important and obvious things, and working the rest in later.
And if I run into a brick wall with this conversation, well … then he doesn't go to preschool just yet. Or I find another place. This is the beginning of some really important decisions we'll need to make on Lucas' behalf. I'll do what it takes to make sure it's the right fit for him. It's the least I can do.
