paying attention

Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity. –Simone Weil

Although our six-year-old is too young to be diagnosed with ADD, most of the experts he spent his days with last fall were convinced he had it. Not recognizing the boy they described, we asked to see video of a typical classroom scene. The mute, distracted, fidgeting child was not the Elliott we knew. This disheartening visual aid should have been enough for us to pull him out of his self-contained classroom, but I, at least, was still convinced that the experts could probably do a better job coaxing letter recognition and basic math facts out of a brain focused primarily on blankie, Curious George and his best friend Mia. An end-of-the-year conference led by an exasperated teacher who had quite literally given up hope gave us the shove we needed to bring Elliott home. He was clearly a failure at black-and-white printouts.

Since January, we have been homeschooling Elliott. For the most part, I come up with the ideas, and Andrew (and sometimes my mom) executes them. We incorporate art and music, beads and matchbox cars. We've found that Elliott knows far more than his assessments showed. He can identify all his letters and numbers and is even learning to read. He can pay attention to scholastic activities, but he needs a lot of breaks—walks with the dog, sledding, dancing and, yes, an episode here and there of Curious George. Our child's growing mind can only happily endure structured learning in short bursts. We don't see this as a problem.

Elliott is a homebody, a comedian and a deeply intuitive and caring soul. His anxiety over school— the constrictive environment, being away from us (he still regularly and rather mournfully sings to himself the refrain "grownups come back"), enduring a very long six-and-a-half-hour day of direction with one 20-minute recess—was making him difficult to teach. I am sure now that the attention deficit regularly hinted at had more to do with the sheer exhaustion of trying to hold it together.

Early one morning last week, I was scrutinizing my freshly washed face in the bathroom mirror, silently bemoaning the noticeable dark circles and growing collection of wrinkles, when I noticed Elliott standing in the doorway studying me.

"Mom," he said, his sleepy face gleaming. "You look beautiful."

Just because my son can't sit and complete an activity on a piece of paper doesn't mean he's not paying attention. He is one of the best students I know.

15-minute dinner

A single, 20-something co-worker told me today she couldn't fathom making dinner every night. Even a couple nights a week sounded completely overwhelming. I didn't tell her that next to putting my kids to bed, cooking dinner, even at 8 p.m., is my favorite part of the day.

Although it's nice to have a plan (aka recipe), mostly I just like to make something up. When I don't want to be in the kitchen long (like when Olympic skating airs), I sauté a few ingredients and call it a night. This dinner is always delicious and I can make it in 15-minutes flat.

Sausage Pasta Toss

couple handfuls of pasta (broken spaghetti, penne or bowtie)
olive oil
3 garlic cloves, sliced
1/2 to 1 cup chicken or veggie broth
4 pre-cooked chicken sausages, sliced
can of beans (white kidney, chickpea or pinto), drained and rinced
couple handfuls of greens (spinach, swiss chard or kale)
salt and pepper
parmesan cheese

Cook pasta al dente and drain with beans. Heat oil and sauté garlic for a minute or two, add sausage and 1/2 cup broth. Bring to boil and cook for 4-5 minutes. Add greens, pasta and beans and more broth if needed. Season with salt and pepper and cook down for a couple minutes. Serve topped with parmesan.

the art of understanding a child

Hi Andrew and Amy, 

     I just wanted to check in with you to see if there is anything going on with Elliott lately. He has been making a lot of faces and needing to put things in his mouth. He is chewing on gloves, hats, his shirt sleeves, licking his hand and tissues. It is very difficult to get him to focus on any work as well. I have been doing a lot of assessing this past week and he had difficulty remembering his letter sounds. Let me know if you have any insights... 

(e-mail from Elliott's teacher 11/13/13)

Recently I taught an art class to a bunch of first graders. The assignment was to paint like Michelangelo. I had already taught the lesson to fourth graders, third graders and second graders and it had been a fairly successful project. But I was skeptical about how well six year olds would manage the logistics of the task. Especially Elliott.

The directions went something like this: Put on a smock. Select six paint colors. Take them to a designated spot at one of the tables, where there would be a paint brush, a dish of water and some paper towels. Put one paint color on your brush, then carefully lie down on your back and slide under the table. Find a line drawing taped to the bottom of the table and start painting. When your brush is dry, carefully come out from under the table, stand up and get more paint. To change colors, get your brush wet and wipe it on a paper towel. Try not to get paint all over everything, especially yourself.

With the level of planning, precision and caution required, I didn’t expect much from anyone. Especially Elliott.

The first grade group was the largest one yet. Since I was preoccupied for much of the class time repeating instructions, wiping spills, refilling paint dishes and redirecting the lost and confused, I paid very little attention to Elliott. He took his paints straight to a spot at a table and slid under. He never asked for help. I had no idea what he was doing.

Toward the end of the 20-minute painting time, I checked in on him. I squatted down and peeked at his painting. I held back my tears.

“I did it, Mom,” he smiled proudly.

After regularly receiving reports from teachers like the one that came in yesterday’s e-mail, I never expected to see what my son had accomplished in less than 20 minutes with no direction or help whatsoever. If I hadn’t seen it myself, I wouldn’t have believed it.

Lying on the floor, painting on a paper taped to the underside of a table, my six-year-old experiences movement, novelty, inspiration, expression. He is fully engaged and motivated. Sitting at a desk, staring at a black-and-white print out, he experiences tedium, frustration, confusion, fatigue. He is fully bored and lost. Unfortunately, my kid just can’t learn in scenario two. He’d rather lick tissues.

When it comes to public school education and traditional assessments, I don’t know how to change things to help my child succeed, but I do know this. My kid is no dummy. He’s not ADD or retarded or difficult. He’s simply uninspired. Please, dear educators, find a way to understand the difference.

out of the mouth of my 9 year old

All the recent funny conversations with Liam. Someday I'll be so glad I wrote them down. Hopefully he will, too.

::

Liam: I think I know the answer to this, but I just want to ask. Can we paint our house purple and green diagonal stripes?

::

Liam: It feels like it's getting to be winter. I just love winter. I love snuggling up with dad with salt and vinegar chips and dad has a beer and I have a Coke.

Me: When has that ever happened?

Liam: It hasn't. It's just my dream.

::

Liam: I wish nudisting wasn't against the law?

Me: Nudisting?

Liam: You know, walking around naked.

Me: Why do you wish that wasn't against the law.

Liam: Because then deciding on a Halloween costume would be so easy.

::

After explaining to Liam that a good friend of ours is an expert in Feng Shui, Liam wanted to know more about it. We explained that people hire experts like our friend Bill to rearrange furniture and select new paint colors in order to improve the energy in their homes.

Liam: They pay him?

Me: Yes.

Liam: How much?

Me: I don't know. Probably a couple hundred dollars.

Liam: (sighs) I can tell you what to do. Just paint everything bright colors. You don't even have to pay me.

::

Coming inside after playing with his best friend Ava, Liam complained that he scratched up his hands.

Me: What were you doing?

Liam: Hitting the broom.

Me: Why were you doing that?

Liam: Ava and I were pretending. I was holding the broom upside down and hitting the straw part like it was Ava.

Me: Why in the world would you pretend to hit Ava?

Liam: Because it's a lot better than pretending to kiss her.

nothing to complain about

Every morning from train to office I pass four or five homeless men, most holding cardboard signs summarizing their plight. For a few months I randomly handed out dollar bills when I could. Sometimes now I think ahead and offer a bottle of water or the fruit I bring for my breakfast. But mostly I just walk by and feel kind of sad and useless that there’s nothing significant I can do.

Yesterday as I turned from Wacker onto the Franklin Street bridge, I caught the face of a man I hadn’t seen on previous commutes. Clearly wilting from the unexpected September heat and in need of a shave, he stood against the scaffolding with a warm, friendly gaze and a piece of cardboard on which he had simply penned, “Smile,” in bold black letters.  

It was so surprising to see this sign and the man who held it, I couldn’t help but meet his gaze and give him a huge smile.

Near the end of the train ride that brought me into the city that morning, a woman ran through the cars calling urgently for a doctor or a nurse. Moments earlier the conductor had made a similar announcement over the intercom. Two women sitting across the aisle from me commented loudly how the woman running through the car should get the conductor to make an announcement.

“He did make an announcement,” many of the passengers noted to them.

They hadn’t noticed because they had spent the entire train ride complaining to each other. About a co-worker who slacks off and doesn’t get reprimanded. About a teenage son who always leaves the car tank empty. About something shoddy one of them bought and had trouble returning. About all the work they do that no one notices. About the train schedule. About the heat.

The ladies were dressed nicely and clearly had good jobs. But whatever their lot in life, they appeared to be utterly miserable. It seemed like their only enjoyment was feeding off the other’s greatest woe of the moment. A conductor’s call for help didn’t even move them.

Don’t get me wrong. I know how easy it is to complain, to get bogged down by the small injustices of life, but the contrast yesterday morning between two middle class women and a homeless man gave me pause.

Although not widely recognized, September is devoted to childhood cancer awareness. The only reason I know this is because we have friends whose son died of cancer just shy of his second birthday. Every day this month my friend has been posting links on Facebook to stories of families whose kids have or had cancer. Some of these kids are right in the thick of their treatment, some are in remission, and some, like my friends' son Gabe, lost their fight with this wicked disease.

Every night on my train ride home I read the story of the day. The stories hurt and sometimes I end up in tears. But I am compelled to read. Even with the hell the parents and kids, many of them babies or toddlers, have been through, not one complaint makes it onto the page. Instead, in every story, there is, amazingly, an element of thankfulness. The stories help me gain the things those women seemed to be lacking yesterday morning: perspective, empathy, awareness and incredible gratitude.

Last night when I got off the train I so easily could have gotten into the car and complained about how long the commute was, how it's getting dark earlier, how hot it still is, how tired I was. But all of those thoughts faded away when I saw two boys hanging out of the car windows shouting, “Hi mom!”

I have a vehicle, a house, a job, a beautiful, healthy family. I have absolutely nothing to complain about.

So, for the second time that day, I gratefully accepted the homeless man’s gift. I got into the car and gave my husband and my kids a huge smile.

***

I encourage you to read the story about my friends' son Gabe and their experience with childhood cancer. The story is beautiful and heartbreaking. I believe knowing stories like Gabe's make us all better people.

cookies revive the blog

Over the last eight weeks I have started and left unfinished three different blog posts. With the job, freelance work, family, school craziness, taxes, early risers (need I say more), my head is just not in the game. I think I have something to say but as I start writing, I can't get my thoughts together. Thankfully, inspiration has not disappeared completely. I still remember how to bake.

Tonight I had a hankering for peanut butter cookies. I never make peanut butter cookies. I don't even know how the butter and peanut butter ended up on the counter. And then the egg and the milk. The flour. I had the ingredients. Mostly.

We don't stock much in the sugar department anymore. In fact, some (particularly an 8 year old I know) think I am getting a little crazy about cutting out sugar. Andrew still uses sugar in his coffee, because he likes to poison himself like that. But tonight I thank him. I pillaged what I could from his stash and then got the strange idea to substitute a banana for the rest. A banana's sweet and goes nicely with peanut butter. Could be insanely brilliant. Could be weird but edible. Could totally flop.

The verdict? Well, I am writing this post. The first in nearly two months. You do the math. Then do the recipe. You can thank me later.

Peanut Butter Banana Cookies

1/2 cup butter
1 cup creamy peanut butter (no sugar, of course)
3/4 cup sugar
1 medium ripe banana
1 egg
1 T milk
1 t. vanilla
1 1/4 cup flour
3/4 t. baking soda
1/2 t. baking powder
1/4 t. salt

Cream butter, peanut butter and sugar. Mix in banana until totally blended. Mix in egg, milk and vanilla until creamy and smooth. Stir together dry ingredients in separate bowl and stir into peanut butter mixture. Drop by tablespoons onto lined cookie sheets and bake at 350 degrees for 10-11 minutes.

what you have for breakfast?

This weekend Elliott made it his mission to find out what every soul within earshot ate that morning. Friends, family, librarians, cashiers, random grocery shoppers we passed in the aisles. His approach was so bold and so perfectly innocent, I swelled with a mixture of pride, awkwardness and heartbreak each time he asked his well-rehearsed question.

"What you have for breakfast?"

Most of the people he bravely accosted had to get him to repeat the question. Probably a combination of the consonants missing at the ends of words and the fact that a five year old had never thought to ask this of them before. But everyone gave him an answer.

"Ooooh," he'd always respond. As if it were the first time he had been told toast or oatmeal.

Although I recognize this line of questioning as Elliott's way of making a connection with everyone who crosses his path, I also think he got a lot of pleasure out of answering the question the few times it was tossed back to him. He'd proudly say he ate a cookie. I would step in to explain. It's not really a cookie. It's a healthy cookie. More like a muffin. A healthy muffin.

But it really doesn't matter. My son is going straight for a meaningful exchange. None of that small talk. No simple hellos. What were you doing this morning before you put your face on for the rest of the world? You know, in your pajamas, your real self? How well did you fuel yourself for the day? Me? I ate a cookie. Oh, and here's my irresponsible mother. The parent who gave me a cookie for breakfast. Bye.

"So, what did you have for breakfast?" the checkout lady at the grocery store, our last public encounter, asked this afternoon after Elliott had brazenly drilled her on her own morning routine.

"A cookie!" Elliott practically shouted.

"Wow," said the cashier, glancing at me. "Aren't you lucky!"

I resisted the urge to explain and simply smiled and handed her my money.

Every day this kid teaches me something beautiful. Today I learned that connection matters far more than appearance. And that cookies make a very happy breakfast.

Elliott's (Healthy) Breakfast Cookies

2/3 cup honey
1/4 cup coconut oil
2 eggs
1 t vanilla
1 T orange zest
1/3 cup raisins, dried cranberries or chopped dried figs
1/3 cup chopped nuts
3/4  all-purpose flour
1/2 cup whole wheat flour
1/4 cup oat bran
1/4 cup almond meal
1/2 cup shredded coconut (we use unsweetened)
1/2 t baking soda
1/4 t cinnamon
1/8 t ginger
1/8 t nutmeg

Blend honey through nuts. Stir together dry ingredients and incorporate into wet ingredients. Drop large spoonfuls onto lined cookie sheets. Bake 12 minutes at 350. Makes about a dozen large cookies.