Category Archives: school

May 3, 2013 · 12:08 pm

The Peanut Butter Sandwich

There was an incident with a peanut butter sandwich.

I packed it for his lunch.

Normally, I pack cold stuff – a yogurt tube, a cheese stick and a Babybel, a piece of fruit (apple, banana, or grapes), a crunchy snack (of the orange and salty variety), and a juice box.  I pack this same lunch for him every single day.

Every. Single. Day.

But on this day, he went on a field trip and needed a brown bag lunch.  He needed a completely disposable lunch that didn’t require a cold pack.  I thought a peanut butter sandwich would be a refreshing change.

I was wrong.

As soon as he opened his brown bag and discovered a peanut butter sandwich inside, he bolted to the garbage can and threw it out.  He threw out a perfectly good peanut butter sandwich.  I know this because I chaperoned the field trip and witnessed both the disposal of the sandwich and his tear-filled (regretful?) (embarrassed?) (scared?) eyes after he did it.

Sidebar:  I can now add “big yellow school bus filled with screaming Kindergarten children” to the list of things I’m afraid of.

Here’s the thing.  My sensory kid doesn’t like food much and he doesn’t like much food.  But he does like peanut butter.  I know this because he occasionally has a peanut butter sandwich for dinner when he’s bored of eating macaroni and cheese, bagels and cream cheese, and plain spaghetti.  I thought the peanut butter sandwich for lunch was a clever idea.  It wasn’t.  Here’s why.

There’s a reason he eats the same lunch every single day.  He thrives on the structure.  He depends on it.   My intentions were good but unwise.  Good because I want nothing more than for him to love food and enjoy eating it.  Unwise because I should’ve known that springing an unexpected food on him at school was going to turn his familiar order of things upside down.  (And what was the upside of that?)

A few months ago, I had a tearful conversation with his OT about camp this summer.  For the first time, he’s going to “big kid” day camp (vs. pre-school summer camp).  It’s going to be a big and adventurous experience, and he’s going to meet new people, try new activities, and visit new places.  It’s going to be an amazing summer, and I know in my heart that he’s ready for it.

But, here’s the thing.  I can’t pack his lunch.  I’m not allowed.  How’s he going to get through the summer if I can’t feed him?  If I can’t save him from spinning in an abyss of fear and anxiety in a lunchroom filled with unpleasant smells and food he won’t eat?

Hence, the tearful conversation with the OT.

You’ll be relieved to know that she talked me from the ledge.  She reminded me that he needs this push.  That he has to move forward.  That he can and will find his way.  That he will eat.  I also found out from the camp administrator that regardless of what’s on the lunch menu each day, the kids can always choose from an alternative menu that includes – you guessed it – a peanut butter sandwich.

So, I (selfishly) sent a peanut butter sandwich to school in a brown bag lunch as a test.

It failed.  The sandwich ended up in the garbage can before it ever came out of the plastic bag in which it was packed.

He failed.   Instead of eating it or staying calm and saying, “No thank you,” he panicked.

I failed.  I failed the most.  I should never have done it.  My attempt to get him to eat a peanut butter sandwich for lunch by surprising him with a peanut butter sandwich for lunch was the equivalent of yelling at a crying baby to get him or her to stop crying.  It wasn’t going to work.  I set him up for failure and then had the audacity to be angry with him for his inappropriate response.  (Yes, “inappropriate” is the word I used when I quietly confronted him by the garbage can.  I regretted it instantly.)

Sometimes my actions aren’t meant for the child I do have, but for the child I think I have.  (Or wish I had?)  If that sounds harsh, it’s because it is.  But, it’s the truth.  In my children’s beautiful flaws, I have the opportunity to see and face my own.

I know now (but should have known before the incident with the peanut butter sandwich) that introducing him to the lunch menu at camp must be a slow moving, delicately handled, and unsurprising process.

Isn’t it funny what chokes and humbles us as parents?  Of all the real and imagined things that have kept me up at night – and there have been many – I never thought in a million years the thing that would render me so completely unsure of myself as a mother would be a peanut butter sandwich.

What’s your peanut butter sandwich?

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Filed under camp, food, food issues, motherhood, parenting, school, sensory processing disorder

May 1, 2013 · 10:19 am

I’m Like A Bird, I’ll Only Fly Away

Now that my oldest is out in the big, bad world (i.e. Kindergarten), something has shifted.  He’s no longer learning about the world just through me, but rather through every Tom, Dick and Harry he encounters along the way.  The thing that’s so hard about letting our precious birds leave the nest is that the messages they inevitably receive from others make our parenting job at home ten a hundred a thousand times harder.

The nonsense my six-year-old brings home from school reminds me of the time when my cat, Murray…

Side bar:  I once had a cat named Murray, which is strange because I’m deathly allergic to cats.  If a cat just rubs up against my leg, I need a cortisone shot…stat.  Murray was a street cat who, somehow, chose us.  (It might’ve had something to do with the food my husband left for him on our front porch or the little wooden house he built for him.)  We had no idea how old Murray was, but the scars on his body, the part of his tail where no hair grew, and the way he looked at us suggested he was about a hundred years old and either a war hero or a serial killer.  There’s a lot more to the story of Murray, and if I ever finish my book, there will definitely be a chapter dedicated to him.

Anyhow…  The nonsense my six-year-old brings home from school reminds me of the time when my cat, Murray, stood outside our back door meowing incessantly with a frog lodged in his mouth.  The offering was gross and unwanted, and I shut the door on him.

There have been bad names and bad words, which, despite my imperfect parenting, I’m certain didn’t originate in my nest.  (Believe me, no one will say “suck” preceded or followed by any other words in my house ever again).  There have also been stubborn absolutes, like, “Mommy, 20×20=40.”  No it doesn’t.  Yes it does.  No it doesn’t.  Yes it does.  So-and-so said so.  That standoff went on for quite a while.  Then I poured myself a glass of wine.

The stuff that has me spinning, though, are the zingers have to do with gender identity – with what it means to be a boy.  I’ve been hearing a lot of this lately…

“Girls are beautiful but boys are cool.”

“Boys don’t color in the lines because boys are messy.”

“Boys don’t like writing because boys are crazy.”

“I don’t care if I get into trouble.  All boys get into trouble.”

My little bird is getting troubling gender messages from his peers, teachers, video games, apps, television shows, movies, and books, all of which makes me wonder about the worth of my blood, sweat, and tears during his first five years.  In spite of my constant efforts to impart the loudest and most colorful messages about tolerance, individuality, drive, kindness, respect, and a gazillion other things, my big boy is deftly buying into the notion that he’s supposed to be messy, crazy, and in trouble.

I read an interesting opinion piece in the New York Times a few months ago (“The Boys at the Back”) that suggested the epidemic of boys falling behind in school has a lot to do with their behavior.  Especially among younger children, boys are at a disadvantage, because they don’t (yet) have the same level of skills (attentiveness, persistence, ability to sit still and work independently, etc.) as their female peers.

I think of that article often as I struggle to understand why my Kindergartener has adopted this frustrating “what it means to be a boy” mindset, why he’s getting in more and more trouble at school, and why he thinks carelessness and poor behavior is what’s expected of him.

I used to chuckle (with great compassion, of course) about the impossible job Mamas of girls have to protect them from a culture that sexualizes them at every turn, but every day I witness my boys accept that it’s their destiny to be messy, crazy, or in trouble, my job gets less and less cushy.

I naively imagined that by the time my little birds flew off to Kindergarten, I would sit back and watch them soar.  Now, though, I’m realizing that my work has only just begun, and it must be done delicately while they’re flying (gulp) away from me.

Are you frustrated by the gender identity messages your kids have received at school or elsewhere?

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Filed under boys, school