The time had finally come, but just the thought of Parent / Teacher conferences strikes fear to my very core. For a tiny portion of my day, I have to admit to another person that my kid has issues. I know if my kids have problems sharing or telling lies or throwing tantrums or being too physical or eating paste, but having another person, who isn’t obligated to even like my child let alone love them, point out my beloved’s flaws is not my favorite moment as a parent. Now, if this was a meeting about how great The Kraken is at gross motor skills I would have no fears whatsoever. I mean he learned to ride without training wheels when he was three and a half. Unfortunately, this meeting is about kindergarten readiness, meaning how well he gets along with his peers, fine motor skills and attention span. These are not The Kraken’s strengths.
I arrived for my scheduled conference a bit early and sadly heard the tail end of the meeting before mine. Apparently Ariel* is the picture of patience and kindness, can already read and writes her full name beautifully. The teacher, Miss Triton*, only wishes Ariel would assert herself more often and stand up for herself. Hmm. Didn’t know that kind of child existed. Miss Triton and Ariel’s mom finished in record time and had a few minutes to shoot the breeze. In that time I learned Miss Triton really hates these conference thingies especially when she has bad news to deliver and coincidently she saved the “best for last.” Great. It was my turn, and I was asked if I was ready. “Sure,” I said, “though I have a feeling we are about to rumble.” Both ladies just stared at me like I had a rhinoceros horn on my head, which is why I wish there was some sort of “air quotes” for sarcasm. Neither was amused. Awesome. Ariel’s mom was my last potential victim for Operation Make Some Friends.
For the record, I really like both of his teachers. They have been teaching forever and have the right mixture of kindness and sternness. I would bet the classroom shenanigans are kept to a minimum. This certainly wasn’t her first dreaded conference and so she expertly began with, “Do you have any concerns?” This simple question can alert her to the bozo parent that has no clue what their kid is capable of or can cut right to the quick of things to end the agony for herself and, in this case, me. Long story short, my concerns are in fact her concerns: The Kraken can be manipulative and sneaky. This is no news flash.
Here’s what I learned: They do not send the kids to timeout. Instead they send the kids to the puzzle table for a quiet activity and time for reflection. The Kraken is really good at puzzles.
In all the millions of times I have grilled my little man for information on what he did at school each day, I have never, ever heard one small hint that a puzzle table even exists. I don’t blame him, I don’t often tattle on myself either, but I am also oddly impressed. Seriously, not one mention, ever. The Kraken’s biggest offense is walking past someone’s block tower and “accidently” sticking his foot out just far enough to send it crumbling to the ground. He also enjoys taking three cars from the overflowing car bin which just so happen to be Flounder, Sebastian and Scuttle’s* favorite cars, (which isn’t a horrible thing in and of itself, if he had them first, but we all know he is trying to push buttons and make people cry). He gets his wish as both crimes induce angry eruptions from his classmates. It seems he has done enough sneaky nasty deeds that if anyone at all cries out in misery, The Kraken is the one all the kids point at. Apparently he was blamed for a classroom scuffle one morning when he was in fact home sick with croup. Poor little Kraken. Poor little classmates. Miss Triton left me with these parting gifts, “It’ a good thing he is so cute. That curly hair and dimple are to die for. I feel you have a class clown in the making.” Super.
I confronted The Kraken first thing, not on his behavior but on the existence of the puzzle table. He got the hint. Each and every day I now ask how his day was and if he had to go to the puzzle table. Overall, he has been pretty honest about it (the child is NOT a good liar just in case you think I have gone soft). On Monday however I knew there was something he wasn’t telling me even though Miss Ursula had told me herself his behavior had improved by leaps and bounds, and she hadn’t sent him to reflect for quite a few days. Here’s the official report . . .
“Well, I probably should have gone to the puzzle table. But Eric* did have to go. He has curly hair too so I yink someone got confused.” Your secret is safe with me son, just this once.
*Names have been changed to protect the innocent. : )
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Valentine's Day and a Hand Cramp
I’ve never been a fan of Valentine’s Day. It’s all too mushy gushy for a girl that neither likes to be touched nor wants to share her feelings. My husband though a bit of a romantic, lost a few grandparents on or very nearly on the 14th and thus also hates the holiday. We spent our first Valentine’s Day together 15 years ago in a car dealership picking out a Volvo for his mother, and that set the precedent. We just don’t celebrate the darn thing. I never really thought my feelings toward this day would get worse or better. Then we had a son. A son in preschool with twenty some odd Valentine’s to sign and a teacher who greatly encourages her kids to sign them all by themselves. I have a feeling this is going to go poorly.
I am all for this exercise in theory. What great practice! Hip hip hooray! And I admit that The Kraken is getting really good at writing his name. Most people can even read it. The problem is The Kraken contains 9 letters. The poor child needs the entire length of a piece of paper and them some to accomplish the feat. Oh, and getting him to actually sit down and write his name once takes begging, pleading and the occasional bribe. I should write myself a note for next year to start the Valentine’s signage shortly after the New Year. Since I can’t even find the grocery list I made yesterday, this plan is foolproof. And seeing as I didn’t have the foresight to write myself this special note last year, we have 25 cards about the size of post-it notes to sign and two nights to get it done. Should I stab my eye out now or later?
Care to learn the stages of a 4-year old losing his mind?
We began the activity with excitement, “This could be fun, momma!” And for three seconds it was. Then he realized there was no way on this green earth he would be able to fit his whole name in one line. He melted and seized for only a minute, then, being a problem solver, he wrote what letters he could and floated the remaining ones in random order just above the rest. Not all that easy to ready, but crises averted. Let’s continue. 24 more to go.
The second stage, boredom cropped up somewhere around card number 5. “How many more, momma?” He would write a couple letters, look up at me, shake his head and repeat the question. I gave him the option of stopping and picking it back up in the morning. But at the beginning of this mess I offered a temporary Star Wars tattoo when he finished the job. He never misses the opportunity for a Star Wars tattoo. When given the out he would just sigh as if exhausted, and then carry on. Only 19 more my son. Only 19 more.
Wiggles. The Wiggles phase. Not sure there is much more to add here. No one can wiggle like a 4 year old boy. Only 18 more. We can do this.
This is the crying phase, and it’s pretty ugly, folks. Upon finishing card number eight, The Kraken slammed his head down on the table and gushed, “This is torture.” No drama in this house, right? Well, son you are doing it to yourself. I would have abandoned ship three cards ago. On we tearfully go. 17 more. Ugg.
If The Kraken were a bit older our next phase would need to be censored because he just got mean. I guess he felt the only way to cope with the situation was to hurl insults: “This is so mean. Your kitchen sticks. I’m going to tell daddy you are mean. I hate this pen. No one else in school is doing this. I’m going to mess up this time just to make you mad.” Those were the only insults he could muster, and I’m very relieved. I’m just not sure what I would have done if my sweet little innocent Kraken had called me a poopy head or stupid brain or whatever it is the kids are saying these days. Talk about heartbreaking. At this point I’m really not sure how many we have left. Does everyone in your class really need a Valentine? Maybe we can shave off a few.
Cue the final and most entertaining phase: The giggles. Wow. Who knew everything, literally everything, could be so funny: the rip in the tablecloth, the sun coming through the blinds, that weird noise the refrigerator makes, my shirt. So funny in fact that all the laughter causes crying, runny nose and even the occasional drool drip. Don’t worry fellow preschool kiddos; we will wipe the body fluids off the Valentine’s before passing them out. We are finished! Hooray. 18 mostly legible. 2 really not at all legible. And 5 that are clear as day if you squint your eyes just a little bit.
I call it a victory! Forty minutes of handwriting practice through a roller coaster of emotions without the slightest inclination of bowing out. Good job Kraken! You are a better man than me. Now I’m going to need your help locating your sweet sister who disappeared more than 25 minutes ago. Wouldn’t it be great if she were practicing her handwriting on a wall somewhere? Perfect. I hate Valentine’s Day.
I am all for this exercise in theory. What great practice! Hip hip hooray! And I admit that The Kraken is getting really good at writing his name. Most people can even read it. The problem is The Kraken contains 9 letters. The poor child needs the entire length of a piece of paper and them some to accomplish the feat. Oh, and getting him to actually sit down and write his name once takes begging, pleading and the occasional bribe. I should write myself a note for next year to start the Valentine’s signage shortly after the New Year. Since I can’t even find the grocery list I made yesterday, this plan is foolproof. And seeing as I didn’t have the foresight to write myself this special note last year, we have 25 cards about the size of post-it notes to sign and two nights to get it done. Should I stab my eye out now or later?
Care to learn the stages of a 4-year old losing his mind?
We began the activity with excitement, “This could be fun, momma!” And for three seconds it was. Then he realized there was no way on this green earth he would be able to fit his whole name in one line. He melted and seized for only a minute, then, being a problem solver, he wrote what letters he could and floated the remaining ones in random order just above the rest. Not all that easy to ready, but crises averted. Let’s continue. 24 more to go.
The second stage, boredom cropped up somewhere around card number 5. “How many more, momma?” He would write a couple letters, look up at me, shake his head and repeat the question. I gave him the option of stopping and picking it back up in the morning. But at the beginning of this mess I offered a temporary Star Wars tattoo when he finished the job. He never misses the opportunity for a Star Wars tattoo. When given the out he would just sigh as if exhausted, and then carry on. Only 19 more my son. Only 19 more.
Wiggles. The Wiggles phase. Not sure there is much more to add here. No one can wiggle like a 4 year old boy. Only 18 more. We can do this.
This is the crying phase, and it’s pretty ugly, folks. Upon finishing card number eight, The Kraken slammed his head down on the table and gushed, “This is torture.” No drama in this house, right? Well, son you are doing it to yourself. I would have abandoned ship three cards ago. On we tearfully go. 17 more. Ugg.
If The Kraken were a bit older our next phase would need to be censored because he just got mean. I guess he felt the only way to cope with the situation was to hurl insults: “This is so mean. Your kitchen sticks. I’m going to tell daddy you are mean. I hate this pen. No one else in school is doing this. I’m going to mess up this time just to make you mad.” Those were the only insults he could muster, and I’m very relieved. I’m just not sure what I would have done if my sweet little innocent Kraken had called me a poopy head or stupid brain or whatever it is the kids are saying these days. Talk about heartbreaking. At this point I’m really not sure how many we have left. Does everyone in your class really need a Valentine? Maybe we can shave off a few.
Cue the final and most entertaining phase: The giggles. Wow. Who knew everything, literally everything, could be so funny: the rip in the tablecloth, the sun coming through the blinds, that weird noise the refrigerator makes, my shirt. So funny in fact that all the laughter causes crying, runny nose and even the occasional drool drip. Don’t worry fellow preschool kiddos; we will wipe the body fluids off the Valentine’s before passing them out. We are finished! Hooray. 18 mostly legible. 2 really not at all legible. And 5 that are clear as day if you squint your eyes just a little bit.
I call it a victory! Forty minutes of handwriting practice through a roller coaster of emotions without the slightest inclination of bowing out. Good job Kraken! You are a better man than me. Now I’m going to need your help locating your sweet sister who disappeared more than 25 minutes ago. Wouldn’t it be great if she were practicing her handwriting on a wall somewhere? Perfect. I hate Valentine’s Day.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Love Potion #9?
The Kraken is really into science experiments, which I must admit is a welcome change from races and obstacle courses. (There is a well-worn path through my kitchen, up the stairs, around the bend and straight on ‘til morning from hundreds of timed sprints.) I like the idea that we are making a mess with a purpose even if my inner scientist tends to over complicate things and confuse the poor kid. He may not be able to read any words but by golly he’s gonna write out a chemical reaction. His kindergarten teacher is going to be so impressed and not creeped out in the least I am sure.
One of his new favorite activities is potion making. I know what you’re thinking: potion making sounds more like witchcraft and wizardry than science but since he hasn’t yet required a frog eye, bezoar or essence of dittany we will keep it lumped into the experiments category. All this really means is he fills the bathtub with a couple inches of ice cold water and then pours in the dregs of our almost gone shampoo and soap bottles with an occasional squirt of my expensive face moisturizer. Part of his experiment requires him to run from the master bathroom to the kitchen in order to test all my cooking utensils for maximum frothing potential. The good ones he saves for himself, the not so great ones he passes off to The Siren, who is sitting in the frigid water just happy to be participating.
I find the best seat in the house to witness the mayhem is my very warm and cozy bed. From this vantage point I can observe the bathtub to ensure my budding scientist and his assistant don’t drown, answer frantic questions as he sprints through on the way to and from the kitchen and pin all my favorite things on Pinterest. Multi-tasker of the Year and it’s only eight in the morning!
Somewhere amongst the running back and forth, the “may I use this funny looking ying (turkey baster) to stir my potion?,” the stripping down of clothing because The Kraken doesn’t enjoy damp pajamas and the 400 how to organize your house pins, I got a little lost in the calmness of my morning. It’s not anything close to a typical morning when my spawn are getting along and I can half concentrate on a mommy hobby. Then suddenly snapping me back to reality, The Kraken screamed on the top of his lungs, while running to the kitchen, “DO WE HAVE ANY BOATS?” Boats? No, no boats. “Anyying that floats? Please!”
We spent the next thirty minutes racing the empty shampoo bottles, our boats, around the bathtub.
He may not be able to read or write much of anything at this point. She may not want to do much of anything that doesn’t involve a Disney princess or fancy shoes. They may become best friends and forget the days they drove me crazy fighting for a living. They may not even remember the day we spent the better part of our morning getting our pajamas wet and soapy in the bathtub. I however will never forget it.
One of his new favorite activities is potion making. I know what you’re thinking: potion making sounds more like witchcraft and wizardry than science but since he hasn’t yet required a frog eye, bezoar or essence of dittany we will keep it lumped into the experiments category. All this really means is he fills the bathtub with a couple inches of ice cold water and then pours in the dregs of our almost gone shampoo and soap bottles with an occasional squirt of my expensive face moisturizer. Part of his experiment requires him to run from the master bathroom to the kitchen in order to test all my cooking utensils for maximum frothing potential. The good ones he saves for himself, the not so great ones he passes off to The Siren, who is sitting in the frigid water just happy to be participating.
I find the best seat in the house to witness the mayhem is my very warm and cozy bed. From this vantage point I can observe the bathtub to ensure my budding scientist and his assistant don’t drown, answer frantic questions as he sprints through on the way to and from the kitchen and pin all my favorite things on Pinterest. Multi-tasker of the Year and it’s only eight in the morning!
Somewhere amongst the running back and forth, the “may I use this funny looking ying (turkey baster) to stir my potion?,” the stripping down of clothing because The Kraken doesn’t enjoy damp pajamas and the 400 how to organize your house pins, I got a little lost in the calmness of my morning. It’s not anything close to a typical morning when my spawn are getting along and I can half concentrate on a mommy hobby. Then suddenly snapping me back to reality, The Kraken screamed on the top of his lungs, while running to the kitchen, “DO WE HAVE ANY BOATS?” Boats? No, no boats. “Anyying that floats? Please!”
We spent the next thirty minutes racing the empty shampoo bottles, our boats, around the bathtub.
He may not be able to read or write much of anything at this point. She may not want to do much of anything that doesn’t involve a Disney princess or fancy shoes. They may become best friends and forget the days they drove me crazy fighting for a living. They may not even remember the day we spent the better part of our morning getting our pajamas wet and soapy in the bathtub. I however will never forget it.
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