My School!

This is what Max cried when I pulled out of the primary school parking lot yesterday. "My school!"

Max's first day at preschool.

I was thrilled.

He wasn't crying-crying, there weren't any actual tears. He was too exhausted from his third day of preschool in a very stimulating classroom to wind up into any kind of tantrum. He might have just been accessing an emotional response appropriate for leaving a place and practicing with it.

I don't care about any of that. I'm just glad he said something spontaneous. I'm glad he talked at all. And I am more than grateful that school quickly has become a place he enjoys.

It's been a rough journey these last several months, discovering that Max has a speech delay and perhaps a few sensory issues. His development was cruising right along, his vocabulary was growing, and his academic learning was way ahead.

At 3 years old he can sing the ABCs, correctly identify the sounds each letter makes, and even list a few words here and there that begin with those sounds. He asks me to make crescents and trapezoids when we play shapes with a rubber band, and he is about one letter away from cracking my password on the Kindle to download more apps.

But tell me what he did at school? Say what he is thinking? Communicate in sentences that aren't first given to him for parroting? Nope, not yet.

These last few months have been a confusing and often depressing journey, but the light at the end of the tunnel is glowing brighter. Actually, it's really illuminating several more tunnels, and we still have to evaluate and explore and outright guess which one is Max's best chance at being his full and authentic self. But at least we've figured out how to drive the freaking train.

Paperwork for anything having to do with school or a state board or a child's brain development is an endless stapled packet. Four different packets are really the same one just in slightly different wording or order. We all know just how much I like filling out paperwork.

But now it's an outright battle. Paperwork is just one more tactic that I'm willing to employ to get Max the help he needs to unlock speech and let all of the learning and behavior skills fall into place. I'm willing to drive to a different city to get him the best therapy. I'm willing to be what I never thought I would be: a parent who drives her kid to and from school.

I dutifully stand in the parent waiting area, the vortex of possible friendship and probable judgment. I willingly hand over my little love to other people who don't let me past the buzzer-locked double doors. I scour the little half sheet of paper that reports what he did in school that day as an attempt to have a conversation with him about it.

Happily, three days of this have yielded more results than the previous three months. My stress level has plummeted with just a few hours a day completely belonging to me, when I can actually schedule appointments or clean the house or get some grocery shopping done (which increasingly has become a screamfest when I have to drag along Max). We're all benefiting from a routine.

Max sweetly feels some ownership of this new place, this school with new toys and new playgrounds and new friends. I am feeling the same gratitude for it.

My school! My chance! My relief.

Tower of Babble Babble Babble

Max is 20 months old and on the cusp of a vocabulary explosion. I can feel it. I thought it might be good to record what words he can say now.

This is not bragging. This is me being completely obsessed with language and lists. (OK, maybe a little bragging.)

Of course, only a few of the words below are articulated as clearly as you and I might say them. Max can't really make the "L" sound at the end of "ball," but we all know he is saying "ball" when he is saying "baaa-uh." (The fact that he is usually carrying his big orange bouncy ball is a pretty good clue.)

A few words come out "baaa-uh," but if you listen carefully to inflection you can tell whether he is saying "ball," "bottle" or "block." Other words don't sound anything like the real word -- he says "beeps" for "grapes" -- but we know what he means and that counts as a word in my book. That is what language is for, after all. Communication.

It is hilarious how he says "triangle" and "rectangle." There are at least six extra syllables in there, but he gets an "A" for effort.

Speaking of "A," I'll also note that he is beginning to correctly identify and say some letters and numbers, including: A, B, D, E, O, R, T, 2, 8 and 9.

All of these words for the past several months, and only a few days ago did Max finally call his parents Mama and Dada. His first word ever was "Grandpa," starting out as "Papa" but moving fairly quickly to "Gam-pa." My mother is beside herself that he still hasn't called her "Woo" yet. (That's another story how she got that moniker.) Max learned both "Brother" and "Gabe" (which comes out "Ge-eee") but still no "Woo."

Here's the bragging part. All of the words listed below are what Max says in context or in correct identification. He can speak a lot more words, often just repeating what someone else is saying, but this list is really about what he can say about the things he knows.

Names
Dada
Mama
Brother
Gabe
Grandpa
Baby (any little baby he sees)

Animals
dog
cat
pig
moo moo (for "cow")
bird
duck
horse
mouse
goat
bear
lion
hippo
bug
dinosaur

At the Table
cup
spoon
fork (comes out "bork," too cute)
knife
grapes ("beeps")
cookie
cracker
pouch (those squirty puree things)
bottle
cheese
banana
carrot
peas
corn
cake

Body
hair
ear
eye
nose
teeth
mouth
toe
head
pee pee (fear not, I will teach him anatomical words)

Toys/Characters
ball
block
boat
map (from "Dora the Explorer")
backpack (ditto)
Thomas (as in the Tank Engine)
Blue's Clues
Bot (from "Team Umizoomi")
Elmo
Bubble Guppies (he hits all of the syllables, but not exactly in the right order)
Bubble Puppy ("Bup Pup")
SpongeBob ("Bob Bob" -- and thanks, Gabe, for the early exposure)

His World
car
truck
crane
choo choo (for "train")
book
bath
sock
shoe
hat
tissue (one of my favorites, and one of his most clearly articulated)
bubble
balloon
pumpkin
toothbrush (this one comes and goes, it was one of his first words, but he doesn't say it much now)
light
door
bink ("pacifier")
snow
sky
moon
sun
star (in the astronomical and geometrical sense)
triangle
rectangle
oval
circle
box

Colors
blue
green
purple
orange
black
pink
red

Other
bye bye
hi
hello
go
uh-oh
no
thank you
don't
all done
up
down
big
small
apart
together
pop
pat
back
cold
hot
march
amen (although I think even at church he thinks we're all saying "Oh, man!" like Swiper the Fox on "Dora")

And then one of my favorite things he says, in a way, is the fake snore for "sleep." "Acgghh-shooo, acgghh-shoo, acgghh-shoo ..."

Let's Get This Straight: You're the Parent, He's the Toddler

I recently read a fairly cute blog post on how to recognize parents with toddlers in a grocery store.

It's not exactly farce, though. Some parents really do let their kids open food packages while shopping and let their kids unload the cart at the checkout.

Screw that.

Ask my son Gabe, and hopefully he will tell you that he had a happy, idyllic childhood. And I never once let him eat something in the grocery store before I paid for it.

He may have helped unload the cart, but I'd be damned if I waited on him to do it all or, worse, make the person behind me wait. And if he ever shot me one of those "NOOO! Gabe do himself!" shouts, that would have been the last time he helped. Ever.

Call me old-fashioned, but I was not put on this earth to be ruled by a toddler. I've had enough immature, tyrannical bosses in my life, thank you very much, and I refuse to enthrone one who came out of my own body.

I know very well that I have succumbed just like any other parent to whatever immediate relief will make a kid happy (well, quiet) in a given moment. But I don't make those moments into regular habits for my child.

Gabe learned early that mommy giveth AND mommy taketh away. But it was a consistent dichotomy: What I permitted I always permitted, and what I refused I always refused. Consistency is the holy grail of parenting. Sure there were lapses, but that probably helped him trust that I was a human being with her own failings and that he need not develop any inferiority complexes over it.

Sometimes new parents ask me, "How do you get a child to _______?" Whatever fills in that blank, I often have trouble really describing how. An answer of, "Uh, I just told Gabe and he did it" is rather unsatisfactory, but it's the truth.

[Keep in mind we're talking toddlerhood here. Getting Gabe the teenager to do whatever I want him to do in whatever way and whenever time I want him to do it is a whole 'nother ballgame.]

While I tried to be calm and kind, I do admit that most of my directives were just that: directives. Commands. Authoritative statements. "Buddy, put away that toy before you get out another one." "Gabe, it's bedtime. Brush your teeth." If I ever added the word "please," it usually indicated an escalated level of command, as in, "Turn. Off. The. Television. Please."

I would throw in some questions and choices, just to mix it up and make sure he wasn't completely warped as a child. But they weren't about anything that I had strong feelings. Bedtime was bedtime. It was not a negotiation. What plastic toy he could drag into the bathtub or out to the sandbox? Have at it, kiddo.

This kind of parenting takes extreme dedication, and it helps greatly if you were raised this way in the first place. To save yourself so much aggravation down the road, you must be willing to take the time to show a child how to do whatever you want him to do. You must sacrifice your personal desires and needs and resist the temptation to give in just to get back to your own life. You must be willing to dig your nails into your palms to keep at bay exasperated screams and camouflage the buttons being pressed. (Make those known and you are toast.)

They don't call it "sticking to your guns" for nothing. This is heavy ammo you are wielding, and it must be done with the same amount of care and discretion as any rules of engagement in a war zone.

You will need to pick your battles, to 1) save your own sanity, and 2) keep your kid off some psychologist's couch in the future, complaining about what a controlling bitch of a mother he had. But if you do battle, you had better win.

I know several lovely, decent, well-intentioned parents who involve their children in every level of family interaction and empower them with adult activities as soon as their gross motor functions materialize. If a child expresses a desire to do/eat/play with something, the wish is granted at the parent's immediate convenience. The child is the sun and all other family members orbit around him.

If all that works for them, woo-hoo. It's just not how I roll. Because it's not only the parent who has become subject to that little person. House guests are expected to treat the child that way; strangers in public are expected to accommodate the waiting, wailing and wandering. I'm not into that unless there is a medical or behavioral condition.

If my toddler has real hunger-induced crankiness while we are at the grocery store, I leave my cart right in the aisle, exit the store, go home (or to the car or park or restaurant or some other acceptable eating space) and feed him, and then we try the shopping trip all over again.

If he's fussing because he just wants to eat that muffin right away because it looks yummy, he does not get it. (Heck, I know it looks delicious, I'm the one who put it in the cart, but if I can wait, so can he.) If he throws a fit and demands the muffin, I leave my cart right in the aisle, exit the store, go home, and put his ass in time out. I wait for someone else to be with him, and then I go try the shopping trip again by myself. (And duh, those muffins ain't coming home.) Dinner may be three hours late, but one screwed-up meal is worth having your child behave on every other shopping trip you'll take together.

That's the hard part, the heavy artillery. There are times for diplomacy and lots of opportunity for outright silliness and relief. You must control the moments that are critical for teaching your child how to be a respectable person in society, but every other moment can be filled with cuddles and kisses and laughter and joy. Do attend to their general comfort, and bolster their self-esteem. Ooh and aah at art projects, compliment tasks well done, spend lots and lots of time reading books together. You must do that part of parenting too.

Please.

Saintly Sinners and Sinning Saints

Youth begin their time in God's Discovery Zone at Peace
Lutheran Church by reading from their favorite books.

Sometimes it blows people's minds that I'm a Sunday school teacher.

To bring their eyebrows out of their hairlines and back to their foreheads where they belong, I assure them I don't cuss in front of my class and am far more patient with them than I am with reporters on deadline.

Occasionally I will share that I just so happen to have a degree in religion, but only if I feel I can physically lift them off of the floor.

I teach at Peace Lutheran Church in Bowling Green, Ohio, where my mother happens to be pastor. (I am not a P.K. She was a farm wife, truck driver, homeless advocate, agency director, and seminary student through my formative years.) We are an ELCA congregation, and we take Lutheran theology pretty seriously, including Luther's emphasis on teaching the Word in understandable and accessible ways.

We take children pretty liberally.

Our communion table is open, which means there are no requirements and no restrictions on anyone desiring to share the Lord's Supper. As soon as a babe can chew solid food, and as soon as her parent decides, my mother will pop a piece of bread into her mouth.

She does offer communion instruction, and "first communion" days are held in celebration, but sometimes that kid has been partaking of the Eucharist for years. Other times that kid has received blessings -- "May Jesus bless and keep you forever," as my mom says, or "You are the apple of God's eye," as fellow congregant and supply preacher Pastor Meg says -- and it really is his first communion. We leave it up to the parents' discretion and children's desire.

Peace kids get to do a lot in church. They take turns holding the baskets for the empty communion glasses, they bring up the youth offering (in a brightly colored plastic tray shaped like a fish), they plan on building a prayer labyrinth, they sometimes walk with the pastor in the recessional and get to shout out the sending with her: "Go in peace, remember the poor," to which the congregation responds, "Thanks be to God."

Today, on Palm Sunday, they will pass out the fronds -- and likely chase each other with them later on the playground. But they get to do that too.

Youth build relationship with many different people at
Peace, including Miss Sheri during song practice.

During worship, some kids sit in the chairs with their families or friends, while some kids sprawl on the floor with their coloring pages. We keep binders of text-themed pictures and activities with a baggie of crayons on a shelf in the back of the sanctuary for them. Again, it's up to the parents' discretion and the children's desire (or level of cooperation).

They come and go out of the sacred space, toddling off to the nursery, hitting the potties, decimating the snack table. They sift through our noisemaker baskets for their favorite shaker or bells until they find just the right one to jangle along with the hymns. They cuddle with someone in the glider or rocking chair that are nestled in with the regular seats in our sanctuary.

They are there.

It's the surest way to teach a kid to hate church and to give up on it completely in adulthood by emotionally duct-taping them to a pew or throwing up barrier after barrier to whoever that is the pastor keeps talking about loving them so dearly.

We do have some boundaries. Gluttony at the snack table is met with a reminder that food is to be shared with everyone. The teaching areas are either open spaces or have doors with big windows, for safety and transparency. When kids are chasing each other with something more threatening than palm fronds -- like the javelin-ish stick Robbie found last week that probably served as a driveway marker at some point -- we stop them.

As for teaching, you're not going to find me drilling them on memory texts. You won't ever hear me tell them they are going to hell if they don't act right.

You will hear me ask them to sit still and be quiet if I am trying to give directions, and I admonish them constantly about closing up the glue bottles. Speaking of raised eyebrows, that's usually all it takes from me to redirect any wild behavior that threatens to knock 92-year-old Miss Norma off her feet as she dutifully washes dishes in the kitchen.

Hopefully you will see me sharing the Word in interesting and age-appropriate ways. Our crafts should be fun and meaningful. The kids should have some idea that God loves them, Jesus will always be there for them, and they have been called to take care of each other and the world around them.

We don't even call it "Sunday school" -- it's God's Discovery Zone and God's Explorers. We engage with the sacred stories and share our ideas, youth and adult leaders alike. We wonder, we laugh, we doubt, we dance.

Children's ministry at Peace is grounded in the goal of relationship building. If the kids are in relationship with people who have a relationship with Jesus -- the pastor, the Sunday school teacher, Miss Norma, another youth -- the kids are connected to Jesus.

They have the rest of their lives to "learn" about what that means. Almost a century old, Miss Norma is still discovering new connections in her relationship with Jesus and with those whom Jesus loves. That's why I don't let the kids run so fast they'll knock her over; I want them to be in relationship with her. It's not just because they're "in church" and that's not what kids are supposed to do "in church."

Frankly, Miss Norma is the dearest soul who has ever walked the planet, and she'd likely extend relationship to a kid even from the floor.

I don't get on the floor with the kids very often anymore. I'm too pregnant and they're too little to help me up.