My son's communication device has afforded us many moments we might otherwise have missed. "Alligator, frog, bug" means "I want to watch the Princess and the Frog." "Pig, porcupine, elephant" is how he lets me know he'd prefer to watch "Sing." Some movies require a more direct approach. He'll fall down and say, "Oh no!" if I pick the wrong one, but a fist bump followed by a fa-la-la-la-la means "Big Hero 6." Using this method, I can usually figure out what show he wishes to see.
This past week, let me say, my fifteen year old and I had a disagreement. We both took ourselves to our rooms to calm down. Paul took his communication device and punched in the words "Love Faith, love Mom, Paul Love, eat food, love Mom, Love Faith, Paul love." (It happened just before dinner).
I thought an older sibling imitating Paul, typed in the words, but the words worked for both of us. The next day, I met with Paul's teacher to visit a site for his schooling next year. She asked if we'd put any new words in his communication device. (I hadn't). She informed me he'd punched in, "Paul sister Bonnie come home today." Bonn wouldn't be home until Sunday but still, the sentence made me think, maybe he did write the other note too.
Still, much of Paul's ability to communicate is dependent upon the rest of us thinking about what he's thinking and more importantly, why. Last night, I took him to Faith's play. Her school put on "Once Upon A Mattress." After the show, Paul clapped enthusiastically, and stood up and clapped and yelled when the King took a bow. He even ran over to shake the King's hand.
The next day, I puzzled over why he found the character of the King so appealing and it was so obvious, I wondered how I ever didn't see it. The King in the play is mute until the end, and spends his time using sign and gestures which his musician and jester interpret. He identified with the King.
Now I wish I'd taken a picture of Paul with the King, but it does give me an insight into how he sees himself, and probably how he sees me...I'm guessing I'm the jester.
All of which leads to why it is that this family needs Paul, all of which leads to why I wanted to share all of this as a story. Bill Nye, science guy recently spoke with a panel about population control and the need to penalize families who have more than whatever it is that now is considered reasonable via policy. My son would be in that stack of the unreasonable number, and I object to the idea, much less the presumption entailed in that discussion, that some people are extra, that some people are unnecessary, and that some people should decide how many children other people should have. I object to using force of law to hurt those who don't agree with such "enlightened" policies.
We would never get to Paul in that world. We would never get to most of my children, and my life, and my family's life would be poorer for it. However, returning to only focusing on the one child we know will not be a world player as it were, Paul is the one society might come to think most easy to whittle out because of his condition.
Let me say, Paul has an extra chromosome. Paul himself, is not extra. He is not part of the surplus population, and he is not a drain on society, he is a breath of fresh air. He is a gift, designed to reveal to the rest of us, to remind the rest of us, about what is and is not important. He makes sure everyone comes to the table to eat. He always wants a bed time story and prayers, he always wants a bath and he always picks and gives me a flower if he sees them when we're walking to the bus. He dances with abandon, he enjoys slapstick and adventure movies and musicals, and greets his sisters and brothers as if he hasn't seen them since forever.
If there's extra beyond the genetic replica of a chromosome in a person with Down Syndrome, it's the gift of being able to love easily and love well. I would say to Bill Nye, and anyone else who views my son or anyone else with a permanent mental and physical disability as extra or unnecessary, the world has plenty of people who work, plenty of people who are very smart, but it needs every person it can find, willing to love easily and well.
Showing posts with label communication. Show all posts
Showing posts with label communication. Show all posts
Sunday, April 30, 2017
Monday, June 27, 2016
Not Lost in Translation
Taking my son to see the ocean for what will feel like to him, the first time, is a great joy. I remember Faith at the age of 31/2, looking out at the Gulf of Mexico for the first time and putting her arms out wide. She said one word. "MINE." She meant it.
I get her sense of things, it is mine. Except I won't be able to know except by best guess, what Paul thinks. We brought along his communicator, but it doesn't always have the words.
I haven't edited it to say, "Are we there yet?"
Last night, when we were driving, he got pretty desperate. We'd been in the car for over 8 hours. "Here?" he asked.
Not yet.
"Here?"
No.
"Here?"
He asked each time he saw a light.
When we got to the house and he climbed the stairs, he turned, looked around, jumped up and down three times and pumped his fist.
Translation: I think he likes being here.
I get her sense of things, it is mine. Except I won't be able to know except by best guess, what Paul thinks. We brought along his communicator, but it doesn't always have the words.
I haven't edited it to say, "Are we there yet?"
Last night, when we were driving, he got pretty desperate. We'd been in the car for over 8 hours. "Here?" he asked.
Not yet.
"Here?"
No.
"Here?"
He asked each time he saw a light.
When we got to the house and he climbed the stairs, he turned, looked around, jumped up and down three times and pumped his fist.
Translation: I think he likes being here.
Friday, June 28, 2013
7 Quick Takes
2. There's a cute little fluffy bunny that lives in our back yard. I thought it was cute when my cute little toddler called me over to watch it for what felt like eleventy thousand minutes as it chewed clover. I thought she and it were adorable until I realized the little rodent had dug up a flower arrangement of ours to create a new home. I banged on the window. The rabbit hopped off. It needs to lay off our garden or I'll get real Mr. MacGregor type mean and catch the little bugger for my kids as a pet. Of course then we'll be back to spending hours staring at the bunny. Still, when she does that, it's melt your heart cute.
3. Today is the last day of Sister Sharon working at my children's school. She's been so much more than just a kids' principal, she's been a friend. I told her she was part of the bones of the school now. It is a brave thing to spend a year in prayer discerning God's will in your life. Prayers for her year in sabbatical to be fruitful.
4. Yesterday, I wrote about zombies. Today, my daughter showed me a short film that blew my mind. It is proof that a luminous story can be made even in the odd genre of horror.
5. Entering the World of my son.
Yesterday, I went outside to check the garden. Normally I bring my keys but with all ten kids at home, I felt fine simply leaving to harvest some lettuce. When I returned, the door was locked and no one was in sight. I knocked and my 4 year old son Paul walked by. He saw me. He saw I wanted in and tried to open the door, but the deadbolt was on so he couldn't. At this point, I was prepared to go around to the front and ring the bell but I saw my son walk to the doorway to the basement and call very loudly for his sisters. I could see him gesturing and talking, trying to convey in muted muddled language, "The door is locked. Come open the door. Mom is at the door." I heard all three conveyed as he called out for his sisters. When neither came, he looked over at me worried, put his had out as if to reassure me, and ran to the room where his other siblings were watching television. By this point, his oldest sister came up, explaining she had heard him and was coming, but Paul also returned with three siblings to get the door open. I remain amazed by his determination and focus given the level of complexity of the situation he had to communicate.
6. And now, an immature grouse.
The package says Bacon. Serving Size. 1 Slice.
And all I can think is, "Are You Kidding ME??????"
7. It's my birthday...or it will be....
I turn 47 next week. Blogging will probably be light if only from the cake coma. Just an FYI.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Surviving Summer Projects Assigned by the School
*Saturday will be rerun blog classic day. This first saw daylight July 8, 2008.
Every parent’s favorite game with children in the summer is "Time to do your summer enrichment program." and the subsequent corollary, "What's My Motivation?" When the time honored and irrefutable “Because I said So…” doesn’t work and that summer reading list looks more daunting than the latest 360 Vertical Drop Over 55 mph Double Loop Roller Coaster at the park, what’s a parent to do?
1) Assess your child' learning style. Physical? Kinetic? I admit it’s drastic but with eight books left and only six weeks of summer, radical solutions may be necessary. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I have bartered 30 minutes of reading for an hour at the pool as a standard deal.
2) Re-evaluate communication methods. By mid-summer, the parent voice is on permanent mute status with kids unless key words are tagged –ice cream, park, movies, mall and swimming. Verbal exchanges should no longer be considered an effective medium for letting offspring know what needs to be done on a given day. The following techniques are offered as viable alternatives to speaking aloud.
a) Post-it notes with a task on each post it. Special Tip: Color code by child. Every three notes or so, put a treat or prize or compliment. Quarters, Klondike Bars and bubbles for outside work well.
b) Mystery Mom Madness Game: Want your kids to listen? Declare yourself silent. Respond to every request and need as usual, but say nothing. See how long it can endure. Gestures to get in the car did not work well, but loading the car with the babies and honking the horn was emotionally satisfying. By not listing the errands, one avoids the caterwauls of protest for the usual stand-by need to dos, dry cleaning, pharmacy, bank and grocery store. Handing out worksheets and holding up pencils in one hand and chocolate bars in the other got the job done for the day. Sure it was passive aggressive, but exceptionally therapeutic.
c) Contracts: Posted sheets on the fridge. Wanted: Room Cleaned, vacuumed, laundry placed in bag and beds made, will pay top $$$. Call 301-Clean ME! For more details. Also wanted: summer book reports completed, typed double spaced and proof read. Unrestricted access to Wii obo. My teen aged son called on his and his sister’s behalf to negotiate prices. We settled on a trip to the book store where they could use their gift cards. Negotiations for homework remain an unresolved issue of dispute.
3) Family dynamics don’t matter. Power and authority are insufficient to guarantee obedience or competency. The problem remains that parents consider summer projects to be like homework, status quo behaviors that require neither rewards, nor reminders, like not fighting with one’s sibling more than once in any given three hour period. Parents are unreasonable this way, as kids view any time spent studying as ruining the entire purpose and spirit of summer, and fighting with sisters, a protected right under the constitution.
Rational explanations do not fly in such a situation. Showing a chart of fights with the time, duration, nature of the offense and participants do not move said recalcitrant children to alter patterns of behavior. Documenting that the same time would have been sufficient to finish two chapters or four workbook lessons does not work, as it reveals why the parent wants the job done, not why the kid should or must.
Emotional appeals also fall flat. Suggesting major carnage will occur if the bad behavior (determined sloth) does not stop must be backed up with sufficient force to ensure compliance and that's hot hard work in the dog days of August. Again, the maximum labor is foisted on the parent. One must remember this is the child's responsibility, not the parents. Ours is but to nag and remind and supply the opportunity.
So what does work?
POLICY WONK APPROACH: Take the curriculum rationale stated for summer projects and enrichment from the school/district web site, and thrust it in front of the children to read, or read aloud if the offspring in question is not yet literate. If it doesn’t motivate, it might induce sleep, giving the parent 2 to 3 hours of peace.
KID SWAP: Explain that you love summer projects as much as they do, then, offer to switch. You can clean their rooms and do their math. They can change the diapers, do the dishes, fold the laundry, make all the beds of children not able to do so, clean the bathrooms and cook the meals. No backsies for 48 hours. Be sure to tell them, you’ll do as good a job as they do.
NASCAR approach: Point out that they can finish the 60 pages of math in 30 days doing 2 a day each or make it drag out all summer. Offer a big prize for finishing first. Stand back and have plenty of sharpened pencils.
Play Kid Chicken. Post the number of days left of summer to finish the projects publically. Keep the countdown to school prominently displayed at all times. Do not mention projects again. If it comes up, shrug and say something along the lines, “Your project, your grade, your problem. If you want help...” Warning, this takes a firm belief that the kid cares more than you do.
Should the summer program studies still loom unfinished, unloved and untouched…push the Nuclear Red button of parenting.
“You’re right. This is dumb. Tell you what, I’ll home school you this year. We’ll start today.”
Every parent’s favorite game with children in the summer is "Time to do your summer enrichment program." and the subsequent corollary, "What's My Motivation?" When the time honored and irrefutable “Because I said So…” doesn’t work and that summer reading list looks more daunting than the latest 360 Vertical Drop Over 55 mph Double Loop Roller Coaster at the park, what’s a parent to do?
1) Assess your child' learning style. Physical? Kinetic? I admit it’s drastic but with eight books left and only six weeks of summer, radical solutions may be necessary. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I have bartered 30 minutes of reading for an hour at the pool as a standard deal.
2) Re-evaluate communication methods. By mid-summer, the parent voice is on permanent mute status with kids unless key words are tagged –ice cream, park, movies, mall and swimming. Verbal exchanges should no longer be considered an effective medium for letting offspring know what needs to be done on a given day. The following techniques are offered as viable alternatives to speaking aloud.
a) Post-it notes with a task on each post it. Special Tip: Color code by child. Every three notes or so, put a treat or prize or compliment. Quarters, Klondike Bars and bubbles for outside work well.
b) Mystery Mom Madness Game: Want your kids to listen? Declare yourself silent. Respond to every request and need as usual, but say nothing. See how long it can endure. Gestures to get in the car did not work well, but loading the car with the babies and honking the horn was emotionally satisfying. By not listing the errands, one avoids the caterwauls of protest for the usual stand-by need to dos, dry cleaning, pharmacy, bank and grocery store. Handing out worksheets and holding up pencils in one hand and chocolate bars in the other got the job done for the day. Sure it was passive aggressive, but exceptionally therapeutic.
c) Contracts: Posted sheets on the fridge. Wanted: Room Cleaned, vacuumed, laundry placed in bag and beds made, will pay top $$$. Call 301-Clean ME! For more details. Also wanted: summer book reports completed, typed double spaced and proof read. Unrestricted access to Wii obo. My teen aged son called on his and his sister’s behalf to negotiate prices. We settled on a trip to the book store where they could use their gift cards. Negotiations for homework remain an unresolved issue of dispute.
3) Family dynamics don’t matter. Power and authority are insufficient to guarantee obedience or competency. The problem remains that parents consider summer projects to be like homework, status quo behaviors that require neither rewards, nor reminders, like not fighting with one’s sibling more than once in any given three hour period. Parents are unreasonable this way, as kids view any time spent studying as ruining the entire purpose and spirit of summer, and fighting with sisters, a protected right under the constitution.
Rational explanations do not fly in such a situation. Showing a chart of fights with the time, duration, nature of the offense and participants do not move said recalcitrant children to alter patterns of behavior. Documenting that the same time would have been sufficient to finish two chapters or four workbook lessons does not work, as it reveals why the parent wants the job done, not why the kid should or must.
Emotional appeals also fall flat. Suggesting major carnage will occur if the bad behavior (determined sloth) does not stop must be backed up with sufficient force to ensure compliance and that's hot hard work in the dog days of August. Again, the maximum labor is foisted on the parent. One must remember this is the child's responsibility, not the parents. Ours is but to nag and remind and supply the opportunity.
So what does work?
POLICY WONK APPROACH: Take the curriculum rationale stated for summer projects and enrichment from the school/district web site, and thrust it in front of the children to read, or read aloud if the offspring in question is not yet literate. If it doesn’t motivate, it might induce sleep, giving the parent 2 to 3 hours of peace.
KID SWAP: Explain that you love summer projects as much as they do, then, offer to switch. You can clean their rooms and do their math. They can change the diapers, do the dishes, fold the laundry, make all the beds of children not able to do so, clean the bathrooms and cook the meals. No backsies for 48 hours. Be sure to tell them, you’ll do as good a job as they do.
NASCAR approach: Point out that they can finish the 60 pages of math in 30 days doing 2 a day each or make it drag out all summer. Offer a big prize for finishing first. Stand back and have plenty of sharpened pencils.
Play Kid Chicken. Post the number of days left of summer to finish the projects publically. Keep the countdown to school prominently displayed at all times. Do not mention projects again. If it comes up, shrug and say something along the lines, “Your project, your grade, your problem. If you want help...” Warning, this takes a firm belief that the kid cares more than you do.
Should the summer program studies still loom unfinished, unloved and untouched…push the Nuclear Red button of parenting.
“You’re right. This is dumb. Tell you what, I’ll home school you this year. We’ll start today.”
Monday, November 22, 2010
Messages You Hear May Vary
As a parent, I spend much of my time interpreting both what is and is not said from each child. Asking "How was your day?" seems like an unloaded question, but the answers both drawn out and brief reveal as much information about what did and did not happen while a person was at school as a piece of DNA at a crime scene. What separates the rookie on the beat from the Sean Connery of the Untouchables, is the capacity for interpretation.
When child one enters the car, I ask the standard mark 1 question. I get a one word answer "Fine." as he flounces to the back row. Automatically alarms go off in my brain. Child has a bad grade. Child had an incident at the playground. Child had a bad day. Mental note to pull over in the parking lot before leaving so as to discern "What's up." Turns out it is a pair of ripped pants in the knee. No biggie.
Child number two bounds into the car and before I can say "Hi" begins telling me a minute by minute breakdown of her day. Most of this data dump is routine, "After math, we had snack..." but having heard this on countless days before, the omission of a class signals a reason for concern. "How was your science test?" I ask. "Oh.....I forgot about that class." she says with a slight grin. "What's for snack?" Second mental note to send an email to the teacher about the exam.
Child number three gets in, complains loudly that he doesn't get his first choice of seat since one person is already sitting there and promptly begins eating his lunch in the car. "Why didn't you eat in school?" "Do you know what I like? Cheeseburgers!" is the response as he continues wolfing down his food. It takes a few minutes to figure out his class won a free lunch from the local Chee Burger Chee Burger to explain why he's now just getting to his yogurt, baloney wrap and apple.
Enter the fourth child who has just finished car patrol. She gets in the front seat. "Don't ask me about my day. I don't want to talk about it." she announces. "Okay." I put on some music and secure that everyone is buckled in before we leave. We get two blocks from school and the silence is pregnant as we wait for the train to pass. She keeps looking over at me, expecting a grilling. I'm trying to be the uber vigilant driver who cares only about the road after all, she said "Don't ask." so I'm assuming, she won't tell until we get home. But the train is long and it gets to be too much for her.
...."Mom..." "Yes?" "Mommmm?" "Yes." "Mom!" "Yes honey, I'm right here, what is it?" "Well today we had a class and it was about....that thing....." Everyone is suddenly glued to the conversation.
The urgent plea on her face is obvious. I crank up the All Christmas songs before Advent Even Begins station and let Andy Williams and his "Most Wonderful Time of the Year..." do the rest.
"We talked about those....THINGS." she says meaningfully and touches with a single delicate finger on each side, her shoulder bones. "And having SUPPLIES!" I am racking my brain. She moves ever so meekly to touch her purse. "And about punctuation." she adds. Maybe it's the three in the afternoon stupids but this time, I'm just not getting it. "About....you know....end of sentence?" The train passes.
We start moving towards home again as comprehension dawns, "Periods." my brain suddenly register. And I know that discussions about grammar will forever hold a double entendra; and that somewhere in the Bureau of Parenting, the Real Department of Homeland Security, I've just turned in one of my last rookie badges and advanced to the role of Veteran in the realm of teenagers. I've broken the code or created one anyway.
Coming up next, "Do You Hear What I Say?" Teaching children that what is said by Mom does not come with an asterisk allowing for escape clauses from stated mandates. No waivers available upon complaint.
When child one enters the car, I ask the standard mark 1 question. I get a one word answer "Fine." as he flounces to the back row. Automatically alarms go off in my brain. Child has a bad grade. Child had an incident at the playground. Child had a bad day. Mental note to pull over in the parking lot before leaving so as to discern "What's up." Turns out it is a pair of ripped pants in the knee. No biggie.
Child number two bounds into the car and before I can say "Hi" begins telling me a minute by minute breakdown of her day. Most of this data dump is routine, "After math, we had snack..." but having heard this on countless days before, the omission of a class signals a reason for concern. "How was your science test?" I ask. "Oh.....I forgot about that class." she says with a slight grin. "What's for snack?" Second mental note to send an email to the teacher about the exam.
Child number three gets in, complains loudly that he doesn't get his first choice of seat since one person is already sitting there and promptly begins eating his lunch in the car. "Why didn't you eat in school?" "Do you know what I like? Cheeseburgers!" is the response as he continues wolfing down his food. It takes a few minutes to figure out his class won a free lunch from the local Chee Burger Chee Burger to explain why he's now just getting to his yogurt, baloney wrap and apple.
Enter the fourth child who has just finished car patrol. She gets in the front seat. "Don't ask me about my day. I don't want to talk about it." she announces. "Okay." I put on some music and secure that everyone is buckled in before we leave. We get two blocks from school and the silence is pregnant as we wait for the train to pass. She keeps looking over at me, expecting a grilling. I'm trying to be the uber vigilant driver who cares only about the road after all, she said "Don't ask." so I'm assuming, she won't tell until we get home. But the train is long and it gets to be too much for her.
...."Mom..." "Yes?" "Mommmm?" "Yes." "Mom!" "Yes honey, I'm right here, what is it?" "Well today we had a class and it was about....that thing....." Everyone is suddenly glued to the conversation.
The urgent plea on her face is obvious. I crank up the All Christmas songs before Advent Even Begins station and let Andy Williams and his "Most Wonderful Time of the Year..." do the rest.
"We talked about those....THINGS." she says meaningfully and touches with a single delicate finger on each side, her shoulder bones. "And having SUPPLIES!" I am racking my brain. She moves ever so meekly to touch her purse. "And about punctuation." she adds. Maybe it's the three in the afternoon stupids but this time, I'm just not getting it. "About....you know....end of sentence?" The train passes.
We start moving towards home again as comprehension dawns, "Periods." my brain suddenly register. And I know that discussions about grammar will forever hold a double entendra; and that somewhere in the Bureau of Parenting, the Real Department of Homeland Security, I've just turned in one of my last rookie badges and advanced to the role of Veteran in the realm of teenagers. I've broken the code or created one anyway.
Coming up next, "Do You Hear What I Say?" Teaching children that what is said by Mom does not come with an asterisk allowing for escape clauses from stated mandates. No waivers available upon complaint.
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Why Can't the Parents Teach Their Children How to Speak?
I finally cracked the code.
I can speak my five year old daughter’s language.
Oh, I know we taught her English, but communication has always been an issue with her. I assumed it was part and parcel of being the fifth child out of eight. I thought she ignored directives on the theory that I wasn’t talking to her. I thought she pouted to be sure she got attention. Now I know better.
My daughter uses purple prose expressions. She likes sugar frosted cereals and pink fairy princesses and over the top sentiment. Moreover, she can be persuaded by use of the same exuberant broad brush painting with words.
How did I discover her dialect?
It was 32 degrees outside.
“Put on your coat. It’s cold.” I said.
“NO!” She crossed her arms and rolled her tongue, making her “ugly face” in response.
Normally I would simply assert my authority and the coat would be on her body. Today, in a moment of maternal weakness, I try to address her actual needs writ large in her defiance. “Look outside. See the frost? I’ve been outside, it’s very cold. Put your coat on.” I thrust the coat in her hands.
“NO!” she repeats and throws the coat on the floor and stomps off.
Torn between, “Oh yes you will wear this coat and I’m putting it on your stomping self right now!” and “Something must be wrong, this makes no sense!” I stall for time and my temper by asking “Why?”
“I don’t want to wear a coat on the playground.” She sobs. She repeats it three times, each subsequent statement becoming more sorrowful and full of deep breaths.
“I’m wearing my coat. It’s cold outside and I want to stay healthy.” My son volunteers, adopting his “virtue boy” voice.
“Thank you son.” I smile and wave him off to the car.
Recognizing he’s not going to get the additional credit at her expense he’d hoped, he sulks off to the car, taking off his coat as he does and pausing by the window to be sure I see him. I rap on the window. “I thought you wanted to stay healthy!” His own words force the coat back on, the cold helps too.
“I don’t want to…”she’s still sobbing.
“Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.” I rub her arms gently to calm her down and try to make eye contact. “I want you to wear your coat so you can be all toasty warm during play time at kindergarten.” She gives me a small smile. I push my apparent advantage.
“I love my daughter and I don’t want her arms cold or for her to not be able to play because she feels uncomfortable. That would be terrible. I want her warm, toasty, ready to go…” The coat goes on in a flash, as do the mittens and the hat, though an older one marches in to switch hats since this daughter is accidentally wearing hers. I wait for the melt down that doesn’t happen and we get in the car.
Something just happened. I asked her to do something and she agreed. Can I do it again? I wonder.
“Hey Precious. Would you do me a great favor to help take care of your brother and sister? It’s a pretty big job…”
“What what what?” She’s all in. I feel vague guilt asking except she’d have to do these things anyway, so I’m just manipulating the mood in which she receives these tasks, I tell myself. “Can you sit in the far back and give the baby her juice? She’s too little.”
“Yes.”
Now my brain is abuz with other prospects –doing homework, chores…the whole world suddenly seems open to me via talking to my dauther.
I start looking at the whole incident for what it truly reveals. Each of my kids speaks English, just with a different dialect. Mulling the whole thing over, the next day I try to say the same command to each child. The following are field tested results from a confirmed child whisperer.
Oldest comes down in short sleeved shirt. He’s fourteen so telling him what to wear other than to say “You’re out of uniform, or that doesn’t fit or is dirty,” is out of bounds. I ask him to take out the garbage. He goes to do the job and immediately comes back in for a coat, hat and mittens.
The next comes in to the kitchen. I’m ready for her. “I stuck your coat and hat and mittens In the dryer…” is all I get out. She’s gone to fetch them in a flash.
My middle girl is a bit of a mystery, compliant in many things but always for her own reasons. She loves cold, so the indirect way won’t work. “Which coat are you wearing today? I don’t want a note from the nurse about not wearing proper attire for playground.” She goes to get her stuff.
Virtue boy sees everyone else and tests me. “I don’t want to wear a coat!” “Fine, then you have to wear a sweater. I hold up the sweater.” He hates sweaters. Batting 1000! I think.
Purple prose still works today and I begin thinking I’ve got it down when it all crashes.
Contrary boy has dressed himself. He is wearing shorts. It is 32 degrees outside and he is wearing shorts. He is bragging about dressing himself. We have to get in the car.
I punt. I dress the baby and load her in the car with the others.
She who would be two loves her coat and willingly complies. Still wondering how I’ll do the last one, I'm considering using parental fiat power but don’t want to ruin my average. I’m in the zone, I think, there has to be another way. I get his socks and shoes on and he is singing about superheroes he’d like to be.
“Thank you Son!” I kiss his forehead and run to the linen closet.
Wrapping him in a polar fleece blanket won’t allow me to go anywhere but back home, but it does get us out the door. Super son and I get in the car. Twenty minutes ‘till school. Buckled and bundled, we’re gonna make it. I feel high on parenting…
“Mom!”
The urgency in her voice tells me I’m about to crash.
“What?”
I’m in freefall.
“You forgot to make us lunches!” There are universal cries of pure despair.
Crash.
“I’ll bring your food before lunch.”
“Before snack?”
Roll, tumble, hit a tree and flip into a ditch and crash again.
“Before snack.”
Mollified, we set out onto the road.
Well, I may have learned the dialect but the universal language is still food.
I can speak my five year old daughter’s language.
Oh, I know we taught her English, but communication has always been an issue with her. I assumed it was part and parcel of being the fifth child out of eight. I thought she ignored directives on the theory that I wasn’t talking to her. I thought she pouted to be sure she got attention. Now I know better.
My daughter uses purple prose expressions. She likes sugar frosted cereals and pink fairy princesses and over the top sentiment. Moreover, she can be persuaded by use of the same exuberant broad brush painting with words.
How did I discover her dialect?
It was 32 degrees outside.
“Put on your coat. It’s cold.” I said.
“NO!” She crossed her arms and rolled her tongue, making her “ugly face” in response.
Normally I would simply assert my authority and the coat would be on her body. Today, in a moment of maternal weakness, I try to address her actual needs writ large in her defiance. “Look outside. See the frost? I’ve been outside, it’s very cold. Put your coat on.” I thrust the coat in her hands.
“NO!” she repeats and throws the coat on the floor and stomps off.
Torn between, “Oh yes you will wear this coat and I’m putting it on your stomping self right now!” and “Something must be wrong, this makes no sense!” I stall for time and my temper by asking “Why?”
“I don’t want to wear a coat on the playground.” She sobs. She repeats it three times, each subsequent statement becoming more sorrowful and full of deep breaths.
“I’m wearing my coat. It’s cold outside and I want to stay healthy.” My son volunteers, adopting his “virtue boy” voice.
“Thank you son.” I smile and wave him off to the car.
Recognizing he’s not going to get the additional credit at her expense he’d hoped, he sulks off to the car, taking off his coat as he does and pausing by the window to be sure I see him. I rap on the window. “I thought you wanted to stay healthy!” His own words force the coat back on, the cold helps too.
“I don’t want to…”she’s still sobbing.
“Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.” I rub her arms gently to calm her down and try to make eye contact. “I want you to wear your coat so you can be all toasty warm during play time at kindergarten.” She gives me a small smile. I push my apparent advantage.
“I love my daughter and I don’t want her arms cold or for her to not be able to play because she feels uncomfortable. That would be terrible. I want her warm, toasty, ready to go…” The coat goes on in a flash, as do the mittens and the hat, though an older one marches in to switch hats since this daughter is accidentally wearing hers. I wait for the melt down that doesn’t happen and we get in the car.
Something just happened. I asked her to do something and she agreed. Can I do it again? I wonder.
“Hey Precious. Would you do me a great favor to help take care of your brother and sister? It’s a pretty big job…”
“What what what?” She’s all in. I feel vague guilt asking except she’d have to do these things anyway, so I’m just manipulating the mood in which she receives these tasks, I tell myself. “Can you sit in the far back and give the baby her juice? She’s too little.”
“Yes.”
Now my brain is abuz with other prospects –doing homework, chores…the whole world suddenly seems open to me via talking to my dauther.
I start looking at the whole incident for what it truly reveals. Each of my kids speaks English, just with a different dialect. Mulling the whole thing over, the next day I try to say the same command to each child. The following are field tested results from a confirmed child whisperer.
Oldest comes down in short sleeved shirt. He’s fourteen so telling him what to wear other than to say “You’re out of uniform, or that doesn’t fit or is dirty,” is out of bounds. I ask him to take out the garbage. He goes to do the job and immediately comes back in for a coat, hat and mittens.
The next comes in to the kitchen. I’m ready for her. “I stuck your coat and hat and mittens In the dryer…” is all I get out. She’s gone to fetch them in a flash.
My middle girl is a bit of a mystery, compliant in many things but always for her own reasons. She loves cold, so the indirect way won’t work. “Which coat are you wearing today? I don’t want a note from the nurse about not wearing proper attire for playground.” She goes to get her stuff.
Virtue boy sees everyone else and tests me. “I don’t want to wear a coat!” “Fine, then you have to wear a sweater. I hold up the sweater.” He hates sweaters. Batting 1000! I think.
Purple prose still works today and I begin thinking I’ve got it down when it all crashes.
Contrary boy has dressed himself. He is wearing shorts. It is 32 degrees outside and he is wearing shorts. He is bragging about dressing himself. We have to get in the car.
I punt. I dress the baby and load her in the car with the others.
She who would be two loves her coat and willingly complies. Still wondering how I’ll do the last one, I'm considering using parental fiat power but don’t want to ruin my average. I’m in the zone, I think, there has to be another way. I get his socks and shoes on and he is singing about superheroes he’d like to be.
“Thank you Son!” I kiss his forehead and run to the linen closet.
Wrapping him in a polar fleece blanket won’t allow me to go anywhere but back home, but it does get us out the door. Super son and I get in the car. Twenty minutes ‘till school. Buckled and bundled, we’re gonna make it. I feel high on parenting…
“Mom!”
The urgency in her voice tells me I’m about to crash.
“What?”
I’m in freefall.
“You forgot to make us lunches!” There are universal cries of pure despair.
Crash.
“I’ll bring your food before lunch.”
“Before snack?”
Roll, tumble, hit a tree and flip into a ditch and crash again.
“Before snack.”
Mollified, we set out onto the road.
Well, I may have learned the dialect but the universal language is still food.
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