Educating the Boy

A year ago, it was suggested to us that the Boy, what with his August birthday and all, might benefit from deferring his entry into kindergarten

There was a lot of conversation at the time, and we took a 'we're talking about kindergarten here, right? With the drawing and the gluing?' approach, and kept him with his peers. The results of that initial assessment led to the development of an individual education plan (IEP) for the Boy, and some additional focused time with educators working on some skills through the year, mostly literacy and handwriting.  

We met with teachers through the year to measure progress. And I do mean 'measure.' The first couple of meetings were framed with some sort of floaty, non-specific language about progress. I made sort of grunting noises during these meetings. Maybe an occasional scoff.

To her credit, his teacher is pretty sharp. She picked up on this and started presenting data organized into tables and charts, documenting his progress against the class median.  It showed that his learning curve really didn't pick up until around Christmas, and that because it was a bit behind in starting, he continued to have to work to keep up in certain areas through Spring. Again, mostly literacy & handwriting. 

"He can do the work," was the message, "with support."  My Bride & I have worked with him on classwork at home. That 'support' mostly looks like standing over him and making him focus on what's in front if him. Or picking stories that contain something he connects with. Like anything with a superhero. Or a robot. Or maybe a robot superhero.  A story about a puppy who makes friends with a turtle? Please don't be so boring, old people. He cannot be bothered to read such drivel. More lasers are required.

By the end of Spring, the teachers asked if  we had thought about deferring his start in first grade a year. 

"He'll have more advantages with another year to mature. Think about how well he'll do in sports!"  

Yeah. You were doing well for a minute. But then you lost me, Teach. Know your audience.  

This was not an easy thing. I see the advantages (not the sports ones). But delay moving forward with your peer group? There's as much disadvantage in being the oldest in your class as there is in being the youngest. We talked a lot about the specific challenges he was having, and what effect a bit more time might have. 

Ok. Two things about handwriting. First: I had terrible handwriting as a kid. I still have terrible handwriting, but as a child it was especially bad. As in: sent-to-the-principal, I-think-there-may-be-something-wrong-with-this-child bad. I remember having lots of conversations about this in first and second grade. I held my pencil wrong. (I still do). I willy-nilly mixed curly and stick letters (I still do). It was barely legible. (I've made a little bit of headway on that one). My father, the Surgeon, wasn't exactly the best role model for this. His handwriting fell somewhere between 'code' and 'lizard footprints.'  I can't really remember if I had to have some special guidance on this. But eventually, we worked it out. (Until, years later, 95% of everything I write is on a keyboard, so when I pick up a pen again it looks slightly worse than my son's handwriting.)

Number two) It bothered the ever-living bejeezus out of his teacher that he took a while to pick a favorite hand. I sort of get this. I'm sure it's on a chart someplace of 'things most kids do at a certain age'.  But on the other hand, both my Bride and I were switch-handers as kids. I still shoot pool and a bow left-handed (which has more to do with eye dominance than hand dominance).  We told them this. But it would still come out in a furtive stage whisper in every meeting.  Like we were talking about teenage pregnancy. 

 "Your son still sometimes... I mean he hasn't... that is to say... he-hasn't-chosen-a-hand-yet. "  

Finally I asked him which hand he liked drawing with better. He held up his left one. 

"Ok, kid. That's your go-to hand from now on. Keep the pencil in that one."  

We haven't had that 'problem' since.  

The biggest challenge really didn't seem to be in a particular academic area, though. Not even in reading & writing. In fact, the teacher emphasized that. What she called out was just general... young-ness.   

A couple of times during the year there were the normal kind of conflicts in class. Two kids broke something of the Boy's mid way through the year. He was a bit upset, and the teacher had the other kids apologize. This made him feel better, and they went back to playing together. Later, the teacher told us that she wished the Boy had asked for more. That this was an indication of his youth.  

More? Like what? The kids apologized. The Boy accepted that, and moved on. They're all still friends. Isn't that, you know, the kind of behavior we're shooting for? Are we aiming for restitution?   

One of the other boys in the class was a bit punchy when he was excited. As: "Hi! So Glad To Be Here! I Will Now Punch You In The Head!"  This happened a few times, with several of the kids. Including the Boy on occasion. 

The Boy was pretty relaxed about things. He'd take the hit, give the kid a look, sigh and move on. He may or may not tell the teacher. He'd tell me, and I'd relay it to the teacher. She told me that his waiting to tell me showed that he wasn't yet mature in his problem escalation. I told her that 1) let's lead this conversation off by focusing on the kid that threw the punch, not the kid that caught it. and 2) The Boy isn't really upset at Punchy McPuncherson. He gets that he's just excitable, and shrugs it off. He just wanted me to know that it happened again.  

This is the balance of "work it out 'mongst yourselves" and "tell me when things get violent" that we shoot for with our kids. And the Boy's reaction was pretty much right on target. So, no. I'm not really buying the "lack of social resolution" skills bit.  The teacher and I discussed this. We politely agreed to disagree.

The whole year left us in a quandary Not very many years ago, when we moved from England to the US and were looking for a school for the Critter, this same school told us to never mind the fact that she had already completed the equivalent of first grade. The social skills were far more important than the academic strengths at this age (emphasis was theirs, not mine). "Stay with her peers. Don't put her in second grade."

The Critter was a quiet child. (Was. Emphasis definitely on WAS). So we followed their guidance, despite my reservations. And sure enough, it was more or less a waste of an academic year for her. But she's happy, and with her peers. And that's to the good. 

For the Boy, he's the mayor of his class. He's the peacemaker and get-along guy. Even Punchy wants to play with him.  He's strong at math, and structural things, engineering tasks & hands-on activities. He's even-keeled and happy. He just hasn't found the pleasure of reading yet.  Which is frustrating for all of us. But there it is. 

We've had a lot of conversations about whether or not to defer his entry into first grade. (A. Lot. Daily at times. Other times, even more often.) We took his IEP to a good friend and special educator out in California. He wouldn't even ping the radar out there. The things that are being worked on are skills that other school systems don't expect until later on. But this is our school. And we don't want him to lose the joy of it.  

In the end, I don't mind him struggling a bit. I struggled with my handwriting. I had speech therapy until third grade. I was shy and tended to hang out in the back of the class.  And for most of my schooling, I had a bad haircut. He's only got one of those issues to work with.

We met with the first grade teacher that the Critter had. "If you set the expectation, often the kid rises to it," she said. "And we'll make sure he has the support in the areas that he needs to focus on, one way or the other." That woman clearly knew her audience.

With a bit of support in the form of a reading tutor and a few more books about Star Wars to capture his attention, I think he'll be just fine.  

First grade, here we come.

 

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This batch tastes sweet, but... ashier.

 

 

The weather was nice enough this last weekend that I moved the maple syrup operation outdoors. 

The trick here is that if you leave the lid off the pot, the ashes from the woodfire occasionally blow in. But if you don't leave it off, the steam doesn't escape, and it'll never boil down. 

I voted for removing the lid, and having the Boy stand next to the pot and occasionally blow the ashes away. It wasn't effective in any way. But he enjoyed the opportunity to contribute. 

 

 

(Actually, one of the last steps before the final boil is to filter the condensed liquid - so the product & taste'll end up just fine.) 

Chinese Food

I don't remember ever eating at a Chinese restaurant growing up. 

That's not strictly true, I guess. I remember going to a Chinese restaurant with a girl in high school. She and I dated for most of high school. So I might have been 15. Or 17. When does 'growing up' stop? I'm also not really sure why I remember that date in particular. I mean, we went to a Chinese restaurant in suburban Georgia in the late '80s. Which I guess is pretty memorable. But I don't remember it like "Oh, hey - I know! Let's go on a grand adventure and try some of that foreign food."  In my memory, it was kind of an ordinary thing to do, which means I had probably done it before. Maybe it sticks out because it wasn't salmon cakes*. 

*(for that to make sense, you'd have to know that every time I went over to that girl's house to have dinner with her family, her mom was making salmon cakes. Every. Single. Time. For three years. I couldn't explain it. I also can't eat salmon cakes to this day. I think I used up my lifetime quota while we were dating. And probably yours, too.) (You couldn't have known that before I told you that story. But now you do, see?)

I don't know what we ordered that night - probably something on the order of Sweet And Sour Fried Chunks Of A Familiar Domestic Animal With Pineapple Chunks. Because that would have been safe.  I also don't remember what the name of the restaurant was. It didn't stand out. Most Chinese restaurant names in America come from the same standard formula. Pick a word from column A [Asia/Jade/Golden/Hunan/Bamboo/China] and add it to a word from column B [Palace/Wok/Panda/Dragon/Garden/Wall]. Boom. You've got yourself a Chinese restaurant. 

I know that I must have gone out to Chinese later on, when I had entered college and was spending time with much more worldly friends in downtown Atlanta. I remember a giant lazy susan, pots of green tea and twelve or so of us trying to figure out if we could afford something more than a couple of plates of egg rolls. As worldly as we were, we probably still didn't venture too far from the aforementioned sweet-and-sour-pineapple-meat. 

I do remember learning to make fried rice from my older brother at some point in my youth. Many years later, when I was staying for a weekend at a different girlfriend's apartment in San Francisco (the girl who would go on to become my beautiful Bride. Despite the story I am telling you now), I sought to impress her by making fried rice like my brother had taught me. Because I didn't know much. But I knew that chicks dig a guy who can cook. So I asked her if she had the ingredients handy. 

Her: 'Probably. What do you need?'

Me: 'Uncle Ben's rice. One beef bouillon cube. And an egg." 

Her: "... Uncl- ... what?! What the hell? No.  Just... no."

Me: "This is San Francisco. It is the San Francisco treat. I've seen the commercials."

Her: That's Rice-a-roni. And still no."

Apparently sensing that intervention was necessary, we met a bunch of friends for dim sum at a Chinese restaurant near San Jose. It's possible that some of my family might read this, and still have never gone to a Chinese restaurant outside of suburban Georgia in the late '80s. So let me explain. 

Dim sum is a style of Chinese food separate and different from all other Chinese foods. It's small, appetizer sized portions, typically dumplings, buns, or other small & conveniently shaped portions of delicious somethings served in a steamer basket or small bowl. They're like Chinese tapas**. It's a great weekend brunch kind of thing.  In the really good places, you don't order off a menu. The dishes are brought out in stacks on wheelie carts - three or four different kinds on a cart. You just point and they put a basket of something steaming hot on the table and stamp your bill. Keep choosing til you're full. 

**Which may not help much in explanation. I didn't try tapas until I was almost thirty. 

 

 

I was never really a picky eater as a kid. I just was not adventurous. (Which I maintain is a different thing). I stuck to the things I knew, and was pretty happy. So when we went to this particular restaurant, I tried to figure out which mysterious basket held something that was sort of close to my comfort zone. I didn't expect to find anything in the Sweet and Sour food group, but I figured I could find something at least vaguely familiar. 

I pointed at one of the baskets and asked the cart-pusher, "What's in this one?" She said something back to me in Chinese. Which may or may not have included the ingredients in that particular dish. I smiled and tried again. "What's in this basket?"  She responded in Chinese again. Except louder, and more slowly. I shook my head shyly and waited for the next cart. 

Unfortunately, that didn't prove to be enough time to improve my Mandarin much. The lady helpfully tipped back the lids of the baskets so I could see the choices, though. Which all looked like a sweaty wonton wrapper, squished around small chopped bits of various somethings. One basket contained something that looked an awful lot like boiled chickens feet. (Turns out, they were boiled chickens feet). This had definitely not been on the menu of the Jade Wok of Conyers, GA. 

The pretty girl that had brought me smiled encouragingly between bites of ... whatever... she was eating, and offered me one out of one of the baskets she had chosen. I was hesitant, but I was also pretty desperate to not look like I was hesitant, and somewhat nervous that my earlier Uncle Ben's comment had not improved my chances of seeing this girl naked again. (Note to my children: only after we got married. By a priest. In a church. With our familys' blessing). So I took one.

It was delicious. I had no idea what was in it. Neither did she. 

Suddenly, I figured out that was kind of the fun, and I started pointing at things, and baskets were dumped on our table. Sometimes, the cart lady would cut up the longer sweaty wantons. Sometimes, she would pour an equally mysterious sauce on my plate that I guessed was supposed to make the dish taste better. It worked. Sure, every once in a while, I would find one that I didn't care for, and I'd try and remember its particular shape so I didn't order it again (anything with taro root). (also. the chickens feet).  But I still look back on that lunch as the moment that would've let me eat the two cups of live catepillar gumbo for a million bucks or whatever reality show I might end up on. 

Fortunately, the Critter has never had an issue - she started out as an adventurous eater, and while she's got a couple of things that aren't really her bag (e.g. beans. Of all the things in the world), she'll try pretty much anything at least once.  

The Boy, on the other hand, is pretty much just like I was. He'll eat anything, if it's covered in a decent amount of ketchup. But his instinct is to stick to what he knows. Chicken. Bread. Maybe some green beans. Anything that comes from a cereal box, with or without milk. And peanut butter. Probably not all together at once. 

But one day, Boy. You're going to meet a girl who's going to take you to a Chinese restaurant. And you're going to have a choice. 

I recommend anything but the chicken's feet.