Bus #108

What would happen if you took the school bus home ?
The police would make you bring it back ! (Well, we all need a little levity these days.)

As a parent, one tries to prepare her kids for everything. Especially if you have one of those kids for whom spur of the moment adjustments can be earth-shatteringly upsetting. Take the first day of third grade for example. New school. New teacher. New kids. New campus. But the biggest anxiety; taking a bright yellow school bus for the first time ever.

Who knows why certain things are scarier than others. But for my 8 year old son, Eli, his fears seemed to circle around taking that bus. There was the question of which one to get on, which one to take home, who will he sit with, what if he misses it? There were countless worries and fears floating around his new school mode of transport.

So what did I do? I was determined to prepare him accordingly which I knew would allay all of his fears. I checked the written parent packet and it was bus #108 that would daily carry my boy to and from his new school. We drilled the number into his head. We played silly games to test his memory. “Should you get on bus #115?” we’d ask, trying to light-heartedly trick him. “What about #37?” “Let’s say there’s a pink school bus and the number is #138 and the driver, whom you’ve never seen, says, ‘come on the bus, little boy. I have candy.’”

We did a couple of dry runs to school from the bus stop and taught him where to meet the bus after school so he’d have no concerns whatsoever. We even practiced walking to and from the bus stop, even timed it so we’d know what time to depart each morning. I was pretty proud of myself. But as all good mythologists know, it’s always pride that comes before the fall.

First day of school and we wait for nearly a half hour at the bus stop. The bus never arrives. We drive Eli to school and he ends up being tardy on his first day, which freaks him out and raises his anxiety level exponentially. After calming him, straightening out the tardy situation, and getting him situated in class, the day went surprisingly well. That is, of course, until it was time to come home.

They shuttled the bus-riding kids out to the parking lot and guided Eli right to bus #105. That’s when all hell broke loose. “I can not get on bus #105!” he insisted. “I’m supposed to be on bus #108.” Bus number 108, however, had broken down earlier in the day (which was why it didn’t come in the morning) and was in the shop torn up and awaiting repair. Bus #105 was taking its place. Of course that didn’t sway my son who had been practicing this drill for over two weeks. I can only imagine his focused little mind as he walked out to the bus. “Bus #108, bus #108, bus #108,” he likely repeated like a mantra as he headed out of school that first day. It eventually took two drivers, the teacher, the vice principal and finally the kind and compassionate principal himself to convince Eli that it was okay to take bus 105 to get home.

“Why was he so upset?” my 11 year old son, Levi, asked. “Because,” I answered, “He did everything right, just the way we practiced. Only sometimes, life changes the rules on us in the middle of the game. And it just isn’t fair.”
So here’s to a new school year filled with busses that will break down, schedules that will be changed, and routines that will be altered. But hopefully, amidst all the chaos life throws in his path, my youngest will learn to sway in the wind like a sturdy Elm and not snap at every formidable gale.

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Shhh! I’m trying to listen to myself!

Paper tigers can scare you as much as real ones!

Why is it we think our kids can escape the struggles we’ve spent our entire lives battling against? That’s what I kept thinking as my 10 year old son’s “talking doctor” explained to him that some kids have “worry brains” that always imagine the worst case scenario in every situation. So when I called my husband last night and asked him to meet me down the block so that our puppies didn’t become dinner to a wandering pack of coyotes I’d encountered, my son was certain that the phone call that led my husband out the front door was a tragic announcement of the demise of both myself and our beloved canines. It took several hours and a great deal of cognitive determination on all our parts to calm my son and finally coax him into bed.

But as I listened to him retelling the story today, there was something unnervingly familiar about his process; almost an eerie sense of deja vu engulfed me. Why? Because he is me! The anxiety. The worry. The incessant voices predicting doom and gloom. My first “talking doctor” called it “catastrophizing.” My son’s dramatic reactions are no different from the way I respond when instead of returning home at 6:30, my husband doesn’t arrive until 7:30 and I take myself step by step through the difficulties I will have to face as a newly widowed mother of two young boys.

I can’t help it. I tell myself irrational stories that scare the bejesus out of me. I’ve done this for as long as I can remember. Frankly, it amazes me when I meet people who don’t live in this type of constant agony. I try hard to contradict the voices that drone on in my head. Sometimes I’m even able to convince myself that whatever impending tragedy awaits me is merely a “paper tiger” as my dad used to say when I was a little girl and my anxiety first surfaced.

But somehow I conveniently forgot about brain genetics when I decided to have children. I guess if I’d realized that my sweet young babies would one day grow up to battle the same mental demons that have pursued me with such unwavering commitment all these years, I might have thought twice about having them. But then where would I be?

Maybe there’s a cosmic challenge here, a symbolic gauntlet that’s been laid at my feet. I need to stop the worry voices in my own head so that I can guide my son to a place of peace and ease within himself so that he doesn’t spend the rest of his life held hostage by a bunch of menacing voices whose only purpose is to keep him from becoming the amazing person he’s meant to become.

Hmmm…easier said than done.

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Therapy queues

The doctor is in...if you're willing to wait a few hours.

In a million years, you will never guess where I stood in line this morning at 6:30a.m.

Go ahead. Try.

Ticketmaster for tix to see the next popular, but sold out Garth Brook’s concert?
No.
Top-rated, coveted charter school to secure a spot for my boys for fall 2011?
No.
Hip new yoga studio for Swami Krishna’s hot yoga flow class?

No.

I stood in line at 6:30a.m. to reserve an after-school therapy appointment for spring and summer for my eldest son. I’m not joking. In order to snag a 4:00p.m., every-other-week appointment, we had to line up, with a host of other patients, outside the doctor’s office for more than an hour prior to the office’s opening.

Has the world gone mad? Queuing up at a psychologist’s office, (who not surprisingly does not take insurance), as if we were trying to get a table at Pizzeria Bianco? I felt like a complete moron.

But what choice did I have? I’ve tried taking my son out of school during the day for what we like to call “talking doctor” appointments. It’s an utter disaster. The conspicuous nature of an early school departure creates so much anxiety in my son that it renders the therapy session completely moot. They need to spend the whole 50 minutes talking him down over his missed class assignments and never get an opportunity to address the deeper, more pressing psychological issues that are causing him distress.

So instead, I opted to wake up at 5a.m. in order to be on the road by 6 and in line by 6:30. We ended up being 2nd in line behind a woman in a folding chair with a thermos of hot coffee who looked as if she’d possibly slept there the night before.

Her son had some serious psychological challenges and she confided that she’d been queuing up like this for 12 years! She confessed to hating the almost humiliating “groupie-esque” process the office insisted on using in the name of fairness. But this doctor had saved her son and helped them to restore some semblance of peace in her family. At the end of the day, it was worth the quarterly degradation of standing on line to secure a post 3p.m. appointment.

We did manage to procure a coveted 4pm spot. And I suppose, if all goes well, I’ll be back mid July with all of the other patients, vying for a 4p.m. fall/winter spot. Those are even harder to get I was told by one of the other veteran moms in line.

Not sure why this irks me quite as much as it does. I guess it sort of takes the personal relationship feeling out of the therapy equation for me. But I’m not the one who needs to feel connected to this doctor. My son really liked him and felt he was someone he could talk to.

So I guess I’ll just accept the fact that being a parent is a lot like being a place-holder in the long line of life. You stand around a lot, wait for something allegedly great to happen, and then, you pay through the nose for whatever it is you thought would solve the problems that ultimately end up working themselves out in spite of your consistent interference.

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Unstandardized testing

A notice I received about the upcoming standardized testing at my 8-year-old son, Levi’s, elementary school:

“To the parents of Levi Gettleman:
…your child qualifies to receive modifications and accommodations during the test, such as an alternative setting, extended time, and/or support with reading.”

It goes on to say that these “alterations” will be noted on your child’s report card and asks for a signature to accept the alternative testing accommodations.

I read the letter over a few times. Levi’s a handful, no doubt. He’s extremely bright, quite advanced verbally, and overly sensitive (no idea where that comes from). He also tends to run high on the anxiety scale. His fine motor skills are a little behind, so handwriting is grueling work for him and causes him untold frustration. I can see where he might need some extra help on an essay test. But I’m fairly certain that the Stanford 9 only requires kids to fill in those tiny, little ovals with a #2 pencil. I’m pretty sure he can handle that.

I shoot an e-mail off to the school “Instruction Specialist,” asking what type of modification Levi might require. I’m kind of confused as to why I wouldn’t want him tested in a regular classroom with the rest of his class.

In her response, she delicately alludes to Levi’s tendency to become agitated when he faces time deadlines and his urge to write all over his papers, desk and himself while he works. She explains that there is no writing on the test other than filling in the requisite ovals. If Levi takes the test in a more test-friendly environment, he’ll have scratch paper and no time limits.

I write back immediately thanking her for the information and unequivocally declining the special set-up. This seems like a no-brainer to me. But as I talk to other parents, I’m amazed at the cadre of responses I get. Most feel I should stack the deck in Levi’s favor by accepting the testing modifications and minimizing the stress. “If he was autistic,” says one friend, “ Or sight impaired, you wouldn’t hesitate to make his environment more appropriate.”

“That’s true,” I contend, “But he’s not. He’s a high-strung kid who’s got to learn how to take tests and deal with anxiety. The longer I put off that learning, the harder it’s going to be for him.”

This strikes me as another one of those weird over-protective child-rearing things we see so commonly in our generation of parents. We’re so afraid of having our kid’s suffer that we shield them from realities they need to experience in order to learn how to function in the world. We don’t let our babies learn self-soothing by crying themselves to sleep. We don’t keep score in T-ball. We allow our lives to center around our children’s needs. We only supply them with positive feedback for fear of damaging their tiny, fragile egos. Well, you know what? Babies who can’t go to sleep on their own, grow up to be people with sleep disorders. And some kids are better T-ball players than others, and their teams are gonna win every time. Losing sucks. But it happens. The truth is, sometimes life is unfair, and you’re not always the best, and if you don’t learn how to take a test when you’re in 2nd grade, you’re gonna struggle with test-taking for the rest of your life. So by being “kind” and offering my child a safer, more comfortable environment, you’re really hampering his ability to compete in tough, real-life situations. No thank you. My son is gonna need to face his own fears and anxieties and learn how to breathe through it, relax his mind and body, and focus on whatever task lies before him. I believe in him enough to let him learn those lessons.