There's a story going round - not the only one of it's kind by a long shot – of a child who, in a moment of crisis, does something wonderfully kind, clever, independent, and wholly successful and his mom gloats that despite her fears she will never “clip his wings”. It's the kind of story that parents, like myself, read and think “awwww, that's sweet” and then a bare moment later think “that is So Not my kid.” Not that my kids are never kind, clever, independent, or successful, but this is a picture-perfect moment when the child in question gets all the right answers and everything works out beautifully. Someone told me it was a celebratory success story, but that doesn't ring true to me - it's not a success so much as a lucky break, if it's even true. It reads more like a fantasy than a real event with real children.
This is the article, if you want to read it.http://wholewoman.hubgarden.com/wings-intact-fly-on-little-buddy/
Rather than rant about all the things that are wrong with this kind of image of children-as-perfect-examples, I'm going to re-tell the story a couple different ways. The fictional children in these stories don't magically come up with right answers, but they are no less worthy of "flight" than that picture-perfect child. They don't need their wings clipped to look like his, they need to have their own valued just as they are.
Story 1: Dragon wings.
While in the process of leaping behind the couch, playing dragon, Storm discovers a lost balloon leftover from the Mad Hatter's Tea Party last month.
Shit. I thought I'd gotten them all.
Naturally Rowan is over the moon, though, so I bite my tongue and stay close, wondering if I should ready an emergency back-up snack for when disaster strikes, or if I'm being defeatist. I'm trying to be more upbeat with my guys, but I'm just as temperamental as they are, so it's a challenge.
At first, everything goes well; the guys actually manage to play together for half an hour without Storm exploding or Rowan breaking down and I think: here's a day for the blog, thank goodness! I'm only just starting to wonder if I should try and redirect the energy a little, while Ro still has something like a sense of perspective, when disaster happens. The damn balloon that I should have thrown away weeks ago breaks and Ro, predictably, comes apart at the seams. I'm a complete failure. Again.
Deep breath. Deep breath. No-one's bleeding or choking. I can handle this. I'm the mom right? Surely I can figure this out.
And then Storm, being Storm, roars like a fricking dragon right in Rowan's face and all hope of calm and sanity are lost. Ohhhhhhh, I could just strangle that kid! Why does he have to be such a terror? I scoop up Ro to get him out of the line of fire and he howls in my ear, completely freaked out. As usual.
As usual.... Somebody online said something about that. About all those “as usuals” being chances to become more proactive. Didn't I have a plan for this? What was it? Picking up Ro was part of it... hey did I get something right? It's hard to think with a kid screaming in my ear and the other running in circles, jumping on the furniture, pretending to fly. Jumping... riiiiiiight.
“Hey, Storm!” I call out, scrabbling for a blanket to throw over Ro's head. “Where's that new How To Train Your Dragon punching bag? Wanna blow it up with the floor pump?” The floor pump involves jumping up and down, and then Storm can wrestle the punching bag into submission for awhile, I hope, while I get Ro settled. Amazingly, he goes for the idea, roaring through the house to collect the toy and the pump and then jumping so enthusiastically the darn hose keeps popping out. Later, I'll laugh about that. Right now, I've managed to insert myself into a chair with Ro, blanket over his head, for some serious snuggling. I remember to stick my face under the blanket every chance I get because he likes the eye contact and not to say anything stupid like “we can get another one.” He doesn't want another one, he wants that balloon to be whole again. “Sorry little buddy,” I tell him instead. “I'm so sorry.”
I'm able to wiggle over sideways at one point to hold the pump hose steady while Storm blows up the punching bag – I'm totally counting this as my yoga practice for today – and then close the plug and let him have at it. He hurls himself on the thing like it's a rival dragon and thrashes his way around the living room for awhile, giving me a chance to direct some undivided attention at Ro for nearly a minute at a time. He's still taking forever to calm down, but I notice I didn't manage to amp him up and make things worse, so I'm counting that as a win. I might actually survive the rest of the day!
Once Ro is down to hiccuping and not actually crying I'm able to suggest a snack, glad I finally broke down and bought the one dollar pudding cups so I don't need to spend ten minutes making pudding. Instead, while the kids are eating the pudding (Storm mostly wearing his) I throw together a monkey platter with odds and ends from the fridge and pantry – cereal, cookies, apple rounds, peperoni and olives, and no, I'm not going to worry about the nutritional content – and switch on the tv and we all snuggle down on the floor to watch Dragonriders of Belk for the millionth time this week.
Storm announces that he's the Alpha Dragon and will protect all of us for ever and Rowan suggests that next time we go to the store, we should get some cauliflower and make “sheep” to eat and I wonder how I managed to get such amazing kids. I know I don't have this parenting thing down, yet, but I'm getting there, one tiny success at a time.
Story 2: Mantis and walking stick
“Mommy, the balloon broke!” Samuel shrieks, as though I'm not three feet away, wondering what possessed me to let my boys play with something that inherently doomed to destruction. Richard is gasping like a landed fish and I give him a hard look, remembering some story I read about kids choking on balloon fragments – should I call 911? But he seems okay, just shocked with the sudden end to his play. So far so good, I think to myself.
“It's okay, we have more of them,” I say, and then kick myself. Wrong-o mamma! You know that's not going to fly with Richard. And indeed, he's already tearing up at the suggestion. I shove my laptop under the couch where it won't get stepped on – no more facebooking for me – and get up to see if there's anything I can do to salvage the situation.
“I know!” Samuel carols, “I'll fix it!” He runs to get his “fix-it-kit”.
Richard looks after him hopefully.
Shit. Now what? It's not like you can actually fix a balloon, but it's no good saying so. Richard will lose it and Samuel will argue that he can, he Can, mommy! and won't hear a word of opposition to his Grand Plan.
I circle around Ricky cautiously, reminding myself not to try and hug him. That's a tough one for me, I'm a hugger, but Richard is touch-averse and tends to melt down if he doesn't initiate contact. My mom keeps telling me I need to have him tested, that he's never going to have any friends if he doesn't learn to get over his fears, but he's actually gotten better now that I'm giving him lots of space and time, so I sit down next to him but not touching and together we watch Samuel.
Sam has got the big blue craft box full of his “tools” and is collecting bits of balloon to reconstruct. There aren't nearly enough pieces. He tries taping them together but the tape won't stick, so he tries stapling them. One piece tears in half and he sinks to the floor, defeated. “I can't do it, Mommy!” he wails. My own mother tells me that she's sure Sam is gifted and just needs to be pushed to do things himself, but I'm not so sure. Pushing just seems to make him more resistant.
“Can I help, somehow?” I ask, not sure what I can do, but I've found that if I don't come out and suggest things the kids sometimes have ideas for me.
No longer the center of attention, Ricky gets up and wanders over to the arts-n-crafts pile and manages to get the book of construction paper out of the middle without knocking the rest over; now That's a gift.
“They just won't go together!” Sam moans.
Richard comes and takes a tube of glitter glue out of the fix-it-box.
“I think maybe some pieces are lost,” I offer.
“No!” Sam is, as usual, very sure of himself. “They just won't go together!”
“Why do you think that is?”
I can hear Ricky tearing paper, but it looks like it's just construction paper so I don't worry about that. As long as it's not the power bill, we're good.
“I don't think the balloon wants to be a balloon any more,” Sam announces, eyes overflowing as he speaks.
I don't know what to say to that – where does this kid get these ideas? But he's my huggable child, so I hug him and let him cry into my t-shirt for a little while. Richard seems content to be doing something under the coffee table – I'm not sure what, but he's totally absorbed in his project and that at least gives me the time to deal with Sam.
Finally, I try asking “what do you think the balloon wants to be, now that it's done being a balloon?” not sure it's the right thing to say, but kind of intrigued with Sam's flight of fancy.
“I think it wants to be a kite. A kite for Lego Spongebob and Lego Sandy to fly up out of Bikini Bottom and go visit Sandy's family in Texas.”
And he proceeds to turn the biggest scrap of balloon into a kite... or rather directs me to do it, since he's still feeling defeated by the thing. I suggest we glue it to a bit of paper and then staple some string to the paper for a tail. He offers suggestions and advice but refuses to have anything to do with the actual process: “No, you do it, Mommy.”
I wonder if Richard has fallen asleep under the table, but instead see he's doing something with the glitter glue. I hope he doesn't get any on the carpet, and then check myself; we're going to have to replace this carpet anyway. Which reminds me...
“How's your diaper, Ricky?” I ask from across the room, trying to gauge his reaction without making eye contact... learned that one the hard way. He doesn't reply for so long I figure he's not going to, but then he gets up and goes to the diaper bag and gets a new pull-up and changes right there. I'm flabbergasted – this is a prizewinning day! Sam's happy playing with his Legos and “kite”, Richard is dry, and I have enough breathing space to go get myself a cup of coffee.
It isn't until later that I get to see what Richard got up to; on the underside of the coffee table is a rough picture, made from multicolored scraps of paper edged in silver glitter paint. At first I think it's a sun, but Samuel translates for his brother: it is the balloon, flying away free at last, even though it is in a million pieces. I snap a picture and send it to my husband at work... I won't be telling my mom about this, she wouldn't understand.