why ya gotta be so mean?

When I was one of the first moms to arrive for the Friday after-school pick up to find her curled up and alone, pretending to read her book in the middle of the chaos, I sensed a problem. How many times before have I seen kids escape into books? It’s actually quite a clever move because it’s missed by most adults: “Oh, look, she’s reading! Always reading, that good little girl.” Most people can’t find fault in reading. Most kids who always have their noses in books do so for a reason other than the joy of reading.

She waited until we reached the car, and then with tears welling in her eyes, gasping for breaths, she confessed: “Maestra Samuela had to talk to me on the playground because I pinched Cecilia because they were all making fun of me and Samuela just yelled at me and didn’t believe they were making fun of me.” By now she couldn’t breathe or speak as the tears flowed along with the emotions. “I don’t have any friends they all just like to make fun of me even my best friend Diletta doesn’t like me. I just couldn’t take it anymore they are all so mean, mamma. I just couldn’t so I pinched Cecilia and then I went by myself and now Samuela yelled at me. I’ve never been in trouble before I didn’t tell my teacher. And I couldn’t talk to Samuela because all I could do was cry.” And she cried and cried and cried as I held her.

I talked with her. Richard talked with her. We discussed doing the right thing; of course, pinching is never the right thing, or hitting or kicking or spitting or scratching.  We offered ways to deal with the teasing, ways to deal with the anger that creeps in as a result of the humiliation from the teasing. We tried to help her to understand the difference between teasing and disagreeing. We talked about ignoring and playing along, and about this behavior being a way of communication among young girls. When Clara sings, “You are Roberta’s best friend! You are with Roberta!” instead of becoming angry and arguing, just sing something back or sing with her or run off to get some water. Coping.  We warned that being on the other side of the teasing is just as dangerous. She admitted to being on that other side at times, too. I also issued the warning of a consequence if there are any more reports of the physical retaliation. (That was difficult for me to do...)

When the story of the events from her point of view finally became apparent, the actual “offense” wasn’t high drama or, when considered alone, reason for alarm. This came as no surprise, as we’ve witnessed similar interactions out back with neighbor kids. If someone tells her that her purple bike is pink, well, that can send her over the edge. Repeated attempts to persuade her to “let it go” or adopt a “Who cares?” attitude are useless.  It incites her. I imagine that these seven-year-old girls quickly assess weakness and take aim. When I surmised that they probably treat each other the same way, she confirmed that they do and quickly called them mean.

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We had one of those activity-packed weekends that inevitably ends with everyone wishing for just one more day before the start of the routine that Monday brings.  For most of it, we were able to bury Friday’s events and emotions and enjoy the moments. Richard and I discussed it again in hushed tones before she joined us for breakfast, opting not to bring attention to it again. She reamained silent during the twenty-five minute drive to school with her dad, saving her only words for just before exiting the car: “I want to change schools.”

When he told me, I cried.

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I need a good book to help me to help my sensitive child. Any suggestions?

cultural conflict in which i send the sick kid back to school too soon

I seriously considered simply bringing the car to a slow crawl in front of the heavy wooden doors and nudging her out of the back seat, over-sized Hello Kitty pack strapped to her back. After all, I have seen some of the older kids enter the doors unaccompanied a time or two, and Young One has requested that she be allowed to do the same. Perhaps Friday could be her big day.

Of course, I knew from the beginning that I would have to gain the courage to go it alone. I pulled the car up on the sidewalk, exited, straightened my coat, stood tall, made sure she was wrapped up well and walked right in with her . . . hoping, praying, wishing that I could just zip in and out, unnoticed by most, with a quick kiss as a send off:  "Be good. I love you. See you at four."

Not.

Richard has been gone for nearly a week, and, in the last few days, Young One has fallen ill. A quick visit to our doctor confirmed that (A) she was sick and (B) she would live through it. (After six years, I still can't determine what is indeed a doctor's-visit-worthy illness.)  Wednesday the good doctor sent us on our way with instructions that as long as the fluids were flowing both ways and she generally felt good, then the kiddo could return to school . . . EVEN if she had a slight fever -- just give her a dose of Motrin before school and send her on her merry way.

The scandal. What was that man thinking? Granted, he's an American, but, give me a break, he's married to a Southern Italian woman. He has been here for years. He has experience with both school systems.  He lives in both worlds. He knows where Young One goes to school. I think he was trying to set me up, evil doctor man.

I've been around enough to know better, so I waited until she had a good night of sleep and was nearly twelve hours fever free. Sure, her throat was still a bit red, her nose a little moister than usual, her eyes a tiny watery, but she spent the better part of an entire day happy, carefree, playing. In my estimation, she was fine and ready to enter the world of the living. She woke in a good mood, and after serving her a healthy breakfast, I dutifully tucked scented Hello Kitty tissues in her pockets, knowing she would have a need for them throughout the day. Hello Kitty was warped into a seemingly natural part of our lives, without effort.

And therein lies the conflict of cultures. Even though I didn't follow the doctor's orders, I also ignored the cultural norm of at least a day, perhaps two of fever-free health before rejoining the party. I decided to risk it, hoping for a stealth, undercover drop off at school.  Just as we turned the corner after the second set of doors, there appeared the heavenly sister, clad entirely in white, descending the marble staircase like a regular St. Catherine sent from the heavens. As she came closer, my courage abandoned me and ran for those wooden doors. Discovered, I stood in front in Clara Barton -- teacher and nurse-woman extraordinaire, but, lucky me, I got the sixty-year-old Italian nun version.

She offered Young One a concerned greeting and then turned her attention directly to me: "Where has she been? Oh, no, not a fever! How can she be back already? It's too soon. Children in the class have been out for eight days. Certainly she isn't well enough to be here. Oh, signora, what must you be thinking? Poor little thing. She needs time to rest, to recover." Young One offered her teacher a pathetic pair of puppy eyes and a perfectly timed lively, productive cough to add to the dramatic effect. (Thanks, kiddo.)

I tried to explain that she visited the doctor, and he said. . . and then I thought it wise just to shut my mouth and take it like a woman. Admitting what the doctor really said would likely cost me a bit of street credit, a bit of parenting credit, a bit of living human being credit. After all, I knew before even going to bed last night that this scene would play out just this way. I created it in my mind almost exactly as it happened. My only hope was to avoid her, which, by the way, is entirely possible as she isn't present in the drop off area every, single morning. Today, the gods were not in my corner. Who am I kidding? God is always in her corner.

Really, I couldn't blame the doctor. I know the difference well enough. They take this stuff seriously, like wearing hats and scarves and appropriate seasonal foot wear and humidity and wind and stress. It's just . . . different.

She scolded me well, and then informed Young One that she would spend the entire day inside the building. I left, somewhat defeated, but at least pleased that Young One was not in the car with me. The kid was at school for the day, ready to fill her little brain. She was in good hands. I can take it. I can play the game. I can swallow my pride. I can respect the cultural norms of my host country (after being discovered not doing so.)

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I found her in her usual spot in the corridor at four when I returned to get her. She's been a regular whiny, demanding, disagreeable pain in the @$$ since then, and as I type this, she has fallen asleep in the big leather chair before seven o'clock on a Friday night, even with the promise of a pizza and movie night. Clearly, not a healthy child.

Thank goodness it's Friday; thank goodness the man will be back tomorrow; thank goodness that I'll be the one out of town Monday, in the event that this little girl may indeed still be ill; thank goodness  -- because I'm quite certain that I would keep her out of school five more days after the way today played out. Certain.



BTW: I have the utmost respect for our pediatrician. He has provided care for Young One since she was four months old, and I consider us fortunate to have him, a staying force in the ever-changing world that is a military installation. It's all in jest, kinda anyway.

organic reading

If you follow along my rambling with any regularity, then you know that I have this ongoing obsession  healthy concern about teaching Young One to read in English. It's something I think about, a lot. I've asked friend after friend for advice, paying close attention to the answers of those in similar situations as us, but also listening closely to American elementary school teachers.

Of course, of course of course of course, I've always had a "feeling" of the approach that I wanted to take, but I still felt an intense need to survey others.  Was I looking for validation? Maybe. Probably. Likely. Undoubtedly.  I realize that now.  It wasn't until I heard of a success story from a colleague early this school year, a success story using similar methods I had in mind, that I was at ease with my choice. It's also when I stopped asking others and started focusing a bit more on making it happen.

We are beginning to see the fruits of this labor around here, with Little Miss Sunshine choosing to work her way through beginning reader books in English. It's rough, it's choppy, it's filled with frustrated pauses and requests for clarification . . . it's just as it should be, with her eager to carry on. Observing a child learning to read is a joyous thing -- maybe one of the best things in life. The empowerment is intense.

(Not to mention that Richard and I are feeling a bit proud of our accomplishment . . . I mean, we've collectively taught lots of kids many things, but being responsible for teaching our only one to read by doing what "feels right". . . well, that give us all sorts of good feelings inside. Hey, we do know what we are doing afterall.)

She's got a long way to go, but we are pleased with the recent boost in confidence she's feeling. She is so incredibly pleased with herself, prouder than I've ever seen her.  The reading in Italian? Piece of cake. Top of the class. (For today.) Ironically, she doesn't share the same sense of pride about that -- even though she is much better in Italian.

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Our approach is a multifaceted one based largely on cues from the child, one that has, in many ways, developed organically in our family.  I'll be happy to share my philosophy some time with you.

on being a tiger mom, or not

Following a recent discussion with friends about the Tiger Mom phenomenon, a friend leaned into me and whispered, "Face it, you're a Tiger Mom." She was joking, of course, mostly.  While I haven't read the book and don't plan to really, I have read the excerpt, seen the good professor interviewed, and have read tons of opinion pieces on the subject, both by those actually being paid to write and women like you and me, as well as by women who were raised by Tiger Mothers.

No, dear friend, I'm no Tiger Mom.  While I don't expect my daughter to be the best, I do expect her to do her best. Every. Single. Time. Admittedly, my expectations of what that means are fairly high.  Why shouldn't they be, really? I believe in her more than anyone on this planet; I know her strengths and weaknesses. As her mother, her number one cheerleader for life, I owe it to her to expect much from her.  I do assume strength, not fragility -- the fundamental concept of this parenting style. She can do it AND she can do it well. When she's not doing so well, it is my responsibility to intervene, to encourage, to guide. It's called parenting. It's the commitment I make to her and anything else is not acceptable.

As I type on this foggy Veneto Saturday morning, she is nestled on the couch watching cartoons waiting for the neighbor to arrive for a play date.  Last night she and I went to a movie, and later today a few of her friends will arrive followed by their much-loved teen babysitter (who, btw, has a quasi Tiger Mom). Not exactly Tiger Mom behavior on my part, is it?

Also, she is the child of an excellent K-12 certified, experienced music educator, and at six-years-old hasn't started formal music lessons. She didn't read or write early, nor could she perform odd tasks like identifying pictures of a stream of American presidents when she was three. She's not the best in the pool or at the gym, nor was she a standout on the slopes in January when she was left behind while her best friend progressed to a more advanced class.  My message to that teary-eyed, disappointed  face: "Hard work, Young One, that's how you'll get there, too. It's up to you. Are you doing your very best?" This was followed by hugs and hand holding and words of encouragement, but it was important that she understand that it's all up to her, and her alone, and that I believed that she could do it. No, she wasn't good enough.  No, I wouldn't ask to have her moved with her friend.  No, it wasn't the instructor's fault, the friend's fault, the snow's fault. Yes, she could change that.

However . . .

I am not among that 70% of American mothers who believe that stressing academic success is not good for children or that learning should be fun. I believe it's important to teach children that good things are worth working for, worth waiting for, worth striving long and hard to achieve. It's not always going to be fun, especially not in the classroom.  Academic success is important; expecting it to magically happen solely as a result of what happens at school is just plain ignorant. (On a side note -- kids don't always want this fun either.  After a semester of getting to know her first grade teacher, I can tell you that this woman's objective is not at all related to fun, quite the opposite, in fact. My girl loves, loves, loves her school, even without daily doses of teacher-created learning fun. You can likely surmise that this expectation of fun in the classroom creates a lively discussion among my colleagues . . . but I digress.) Kids need routines, clear expectations, and the opportunity to do well. They need to know that you believe in them and that you are honest about that.

However . . .

Richard and I do (very) systematically and routinely provide opportunities for learning, in ways that she considers fun. Again, we see it as our role as her parents. We drill her, often. On the 30 minute drive to school for the past several weeks, he and Young One quiz each other with complex mathematical word problems:  "If Matteo has 11 cookies, and he shares three with Daniele, while Yama steals one, but then Rosy gives him two more. . . .then how many cookies does Matteo have?" Over and over. She loves the mental math. It's fun. She and I have created a "Word Book" where we have an ongoing collection of similar words in English, all in my master plan to teacher her to read in English without a prescribed program. Fun. Baking together is to teach her measurements. Planting seeds together is for beginning botany. Fun, I tell you. Richard's iPad is loaded with carefully selected apps for, you guessed it, fun. Some nights, the reading routine is switched for time on a music app . . . it's no accident. . . but it's also no pressure . . . and she's learning alongside her father, even without expensive formal lessons and arguments about practicing.  Fun.  Most importantly, we play a key role in her education and don't expect it to develop solely from fun times at school.  Give me a break.  As a result, we do have high expectations for success.

She gets a lot of down time, but she also gets one of us -- one who assumes strength and not fragility -- ready to read, create, inspire, learn, challenge, and, most importantly, to just BE WITH, just as frequently. My hope is that her confidence will stem from her feelings of success from her achievements, her true achievements -- not some artificial sense of worth created by dishonest praise by parents afraid to wreck self esteem.  And, yes, I expect that academic success will be a part of that. Why should I expect or accept anything less?

So, if that makes me a Tiger Mom. . . all I can say is  ROOAARRR!

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Note - -

1. This confident parenting post comes on the heels of an excellent first report card (translated to straight "A's" with a smattering of "A+'s") for Young One.
2. This confident attitude of mine is subject to change at moment's notice.
3. I will always believe: Kids of all ages need routines, clear expectations, and the opportunity to do well, backed by people who care and believe in them honestly.