Sometimes the Bad Seed Can Be a Good Thing
Next week I start my vacation from my vacation with the kids. I can't wait. I can leave the house each morning with it relatively neat and tidy and when I come home, it'll be the same. No pillows on the floor, or potato chip fragments embedded in the rug. No cat spitballs puddled on the dining-room table and there will be clean glasses whenever I want one.
When they come home I will hear all about what Daddy bought and how gigantic the hotel room was, how big the pool was, how my son ate nothing but chicken "fingers" for a week and how my daughter wishes she could be on vacation forever. I will smile and nod but inside I will be thinking "two more days to school, two more days to school".
At that point, their attitude toward school runs hot and cold. My daughter is convinced she's in "the leftovers class". In her mind, this is the class comprised of all the kids who the teachers didn't pick to be on their "teams". The kids who can't sit still, who climb up the door frames while they're waiting on line for lunch, the mean girls that no one wants, and whomever else she thinks she might not like is a "leftover". She was in tears the day the class lists came out and even after I went up to the school after dark and stood in the pouring rain--well, there's a covered entryway so I wasn't exactly in the rain--and wrote down all the kids who are in this class, she was still sniffling. Ironically, most of the cool boys who she really likes are in her class this year. The wickedly smart kid who sets the pace for tests and everything else is there. And the movie-star handsome jock kid who is very nice and has a few learning issues is in the class too. She'll be fine.
My son doesn't care. He got the fabulous young enthusiastic teacher who I quietly requested and while he doesn't care--I do. I figure each year in public school it's a crap shoot. You might get one of the teachers you request or none but we've been lucky. Most years I luck out and at least one kid ends up with the coveted teacher in that grade. I have no secrets. I guess because they don't graffitti the bathrooms or incite inter-tribal warfare on the playgrounds they're considered fairly harmless and somewhat likable. And luckily this year, neither of my little darlings ended up in a class with THE KID.
Each grade has a "bad seed" who no parent wants in his or her kid's class. In one grade, THE KID is a child whose parents prefer to ignore the diagnosis of autism and just keep giving him lots of love. He is lost and surly and sometimes physically rough. His parents are very bright and accomplished and they work long hours. They overlook his behaviour and buy him lots of bright shiny toys. This particular kid had a playdate at my friend's house a year of so back. Her son was polite and tolerated the kid but they played side by side--more like 3 year olds than 7 year olds. When his mother came to pick him up, he threw a fit and ran off and hid in the house. Thirty minutes later, my friend who is elegantly unflappable always--found herself dragging him out from under a bed in the guest room. "No, no, I'm not going home!", he screamed. "Oh, yes you are!" was her retort. In the background, his mother gently bleated "oh honey, it's okay, we have to go home now". In the heat of her struggle with him, he kicked her. She's still nearly apoplectic when she tells the story of "X's playdate at our house."
In another grade, THE KID is an adopted child with FAS who has trouble getting along with the other kids until about February of each school year. I've come to believe that sometimes, --depending on which of "THE KIDS" you end up with that year, it can be a good experience. One year my daughter had "B", the FAS kid who tended to be contrary and disruptive. She thought he was mean and horrible and she often wailed "why, oh why does he have to be in my class?" I explained that while he'd been inside his mother's tummy, she hadn't taken good care of herself and that his brain had been damaged as a result. I worried about saying too much but I wanted her to understand that he wasn't an outcast by choice.
He was disruptive and early on, he needed more supervision than the teacher and half time aid could provide. I talked to other moms and we talked to the teacher. He got more attention from the aid and things got better. We let it go at that and this turned out to be a good thing. Each month he got a little better and the kids learned to make adjustments so that he wasn't as frustrated. They found ways to include him so that he fit in. He bragged less about his family's great wealth and he tried to be nice. He entered a foul shooting contest and won and his classmates were thrilled for him. "Wow", my daughter said "B is a really good basketball player. He was so happy when he came in with his trophy and we all clapped."
I was impressed by the class' ability to adapt to B, in effect to live peacefully and fruitfully alongside him. It was also a lesson for us all that great wealth does not ensure smooth sailing. This kid has been a problem and will continue to be so. It doesn't matter how many houses or cars or boats they have. He will always require a lot of close attention. They may have adopted him thinking that he'd be like their other children. But the realization that he is different and will remain so, probably doesn't hurt any less. My daughter, who like every other kid in this tony town, feels deprived, saw first hand that sometimes having lots of money doesn't make you happy. Or smarter. "B" turned out to be good for both of us.
When they come home I will hear all about what Daddy bought and how gigantic the hotel room was, how big the pool was, how my son ate nothing but chicken "fingers" for a week and how my daughter wishes she could be on vacation forever. I will smile and nod but inside I will be thinking "two more days to school, two more days to school".
At that point, their attitude toward school runs hot and cold. My daughter is convinced she's in "the leftovers class". In her mind, this is the class comprised of all the kids who the teachers didn't pick to be on their "teams". The kids who can't sit still, who climb up the door frames while they're waiting on line for lunch, the mean girls that no one wants, and whomever else she thinks she might not like is a "leftover". She was in tears the day the class lists came out and even after I went up to the school after dark and stood in the pouring rain--well, there's a covered entryway so I wasn't exactly in the rain--and wrote down all the kids who are in this class, she was still sniffling. Ironically, most of the cool boys who she really likes are in her class this year. The wickedly smart kid who sets the pace for tests and everything else is there. And the movie-star handsome jock kid who is very nice and has a few learning issues is in the class too. She'll be fine.
My son doesn't care. He got the fabulous young enthusiastic teacher who I quietly requested and while he doesn't care--I do. I figure each year in public school it's a crap shoot. You might get one of the teachers you request or none but we've been lucky. Most years I luck out and at least one kid ends up with the coveted teacher in that grade. I have no secrets. I guess because they don't graffitti the bathrooms or incite inter-tribal warfare on the playgrounds they're considered fairly harmless and somewhat likable. And luckily this year, neither of my little darlings ended up in a class with THE KID.
Each grade has a "bad seed" who no parent wants in his or her kid's class. In one grade, THE KID is a child whose parents prefer to ignore the diagnosis of autism and just keep giving him lots of love. He is lost and surly and sometimes physically rough. His parents are very bright and accomplished and they work long hours. They overlook his behaviour and buy him lots of bright shiny toys. This particular kid had a playdate at my friend's house a year of so back. Her son was polite and tolerated the kid but they played side by side--more like 3 year olds than 7 year olds. When his mother came to pick him up, he threw a fit and ran off and hid in the house. Thirty minutes later, my friend who is elegantly unflappable always--found herself dragging him out from under a bed in the guest room. "No, no, I'm not going home!", he screamed. "Oh, yes you are!" was her retort. In the background, his mother gently bleated "oh honey, it's okay, we have to go home now". In the heat of her struggle with him, he kicked her. She's still nearly apoplectic when she tells the story of "X's playdate at our house."
In another grade, THE KID is an adopted child with FAS who has trouble getting along with the other kids until about February of each school year. I've come to believe that sometimes, --depending on which of "THE KIDS" you end up with that year, it can be a good experience. One year my daughter had "B", the FAS kid who tended to be contrary and disruptive. She thought he was mean and horrible and she often wailed "why, oh why does he have to be in my class?" I explained that while he'd been inside his mother's tummy, she hadn't taken good care of herself and that his brain had been damaged as a result. I worried about saying too much but I wanted her to understand that he wasn't an outcast by choice.
He was disruptive and early on, he needed more supervision than the teacher and half time aid could provide. I talked to other moms and we talked to the teacher. He got more attention from the aid and things got better. We let it go at that and this turned out to be a good thing. Each month he got a little better and the kids learned to make adjustments so that he wasn't as frustrated. They found ways to include him so that he fit in. He bragged less about his family's great wealth and he tried to be nice. He entered a foul shooting contest and won and his classmates were thrilled for him. "Wow", my daughter said "B is a really good basketball player. He was so happy when he came in with his trophy and we all clapped."
I was impressed by the class' ability to adapt to B, in effect to live peacefully and fruitfully alongside him. It was also a lesson for us all that great wealth does not ensure smooth sailing. This kid has been a problem and will continue to be so. It doesn't matter how many houses or cars or boats they have. He will always require a lot of close attention. They may have adopted him thinking that he'd be like their other children. But the realization that he is different and will remain so, probably doesn't hurt any less. My daughter, who like every other kid in this tony town, feels deprived, saw first hand that sometimes having lots of money doesn't make you happy. Or smarter. "B" turned out to be good for both of us.
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