May 23, 2016 · 4:35 pm

Marching to the Beat of His Own Drum

drums

My nine-year-old son is going to take drum lessons. I’m dreading it, but not for the reason you probably think.

This school year, we’ve dabbled in ice hockey, chess, basketball, karate, and swimming. None of the activities have resulted in any long-term interest.

I don’t particularly care if my children are athletes, artists, musicians, magicians, or statisticians. I care that they feel like they belong. I care that they believe in themselves and feel comfortable in their own skin. I care that they’re willing to try new things and hard things. I care that they learn, embrace failure, and persevere.

So far, this has proven to be a difficult task.

In our current parenting culture of high-commitment and high-competition sports (the ice hockey season where we live is 8 months long), experimenting with different activities to find one that fits (and inevitably stumbling through the ones that don’t) feels a lot like repetitive quitting. And let’s face it, quitting feels a lot like failing.

Chess was boring. Basketball was intimidating. Karate was uncomfortable. Swimming is the one strand of spaghetti that has stuck. My son wants to pass the deep water test at our community pool this summer so he can go down the water slides in the deep end. It’s been useful motivation to go to his once weekly lesson, but I wouldn’t classify swimming as a passion or even a joyful hobby. It’s a means to an end. It’s an obligation. Still, he goes.

In the case of the drums, I’m not dreading the lessons because of the potential for long bouts of loud, ear-splitting, off-rhythm noise coming from my basement. On the contrary, I’m dreading it because I’m excited about it.

I’m enthusiastic about the idea of him playing a musical instrument, and I’m giddy about the positive benefits music has on kids’ cognitive brain development, especially ones like mine with anxiety, attention, and sensory issues. I also think the drums are cool and have found myself daydreaming at least once (or twice) about my son someday playing in a rock band or joining the marching band at school. Most importantly, I’ve imagined him belonging, believing in himself and feeling comfortable in his own skin, learning, and persevering.

I’m worried that if it doesn’t work out, and there’s a good chance that it won’t, I’ve set myself up for a pretty big fall. I’m afraid the reality might not not live up to my expectations, and I’m anxious about finding myself in the uncomfortable position once again of deciding whether to make him stick it out or try something different.

I’m not a Tiger Mom (obviously), but I am my son’s mom, and I know he’ll eventually figure out what brings him joy and inspires him to learn, create, grow, and dream in his own time, just as he did when he learned to walk, talk, use the toilet, read, and tie his shoes. It’s just a lot easier to reflect on these milestones in hindsight.

My son is as excited about his first drum lesson as I am, so perhaps that’s a positive sign. No matter what happens, though, one thing is for sure. I most definitely have a kid who beats to his own drum.

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Filed under anxiety, parenting, sports

May 18, 2016 · 10:36 am

There’s No Such Thing as Being Overprotective When it Comes to Our Kids’ Spirit

My seven-year-old son brought home an art project from school. A poem called “The Rain” was handwritten on a raindrop-shaped piece of lined paper and glued to a piece of construction paper shaped like an umbrella. His handwriting was neat, and the sweetness of the poem nearly made me teary.

The Rain

Pitter patter, raindrops

Falling from the sky,

Here is my umbrella

To keep me safe and dry!

When the rain is over,

And the sun begins to glow,

Little flowers start to bud

And grow and grow and grow!

I turned the umbrella over and discovered a diabolical illustration of deadly rain, robot monsters, umbrella-holding victims, and overall obliteration and destruction.

rileyartdesstruction

My son’s mind is fascinating. His imagination is fierce and intoxicating. His artwork, albeit (occasionally) dark and menacing, has palpable energy, movement, and strength. It’s wild, unpredictable, and honest. I admit I wonder sometimes where his extreme inspiration comes from, but never want to get in the way of his gift.

rileyartants

rileyartangrybird

In Kindergarten last year, my then five-year-old son colored a Thanksgiving booklet filled with pictures of Indians, pilgrims, and other images of the holiday. His teacher sent the booklet home with a note written on the front cover that said, “Please color realistic, people are not yellow.”

rileyartthanksgiving

I was shocked. When my son saw the note and asked, “What did I do wrong, Mommy?” I was enraged.

He did nothing wrong. He was a little kid with a box of crayons and an active imagination, and if he’d drawn the pilgrims blue with purple stripes, he would’ve been right then, too.

My son struggled in Kindergarten. He wasn’t ready for the workload. He wasn’t ready for the lack of free play or the monotony of the curriculum. He wasn’t ready to have his spirit crushed because of his crayon color choices.

I have a memory of being in my kitchen with my mom and uncle when I was a little girl. While they talked, I created a masterpiece of colorful combs in my mom’s hair. When I was finished and delighted by my originality, my uncle looked at my mom’s hair and then me and he said, “It’s a good thing you’re cute.”

This seemingly insignificant moment wasn’t the only time in my life that someone planted a seed of self-doubt – a healthy root of you’re not good or smart enough – inside of me, but the fact that I remember it so vividly is illuminating.

As disappointed as I was in my son’s Kindergarten teacher, I was even more upset at myself for not calling her out on planting a seed of insecurity in my son. I wish I had spoken up about her foolish criticism, but I learned an invaluable lesson. I vowed to be a better advocate for my children, I promised not to let anyone squeeze them into a box in which they didn’t fit, and I swore to protect and nourish their creativity.

Making art – or expressing our true selves in any capacity – is the epitome of bravery and vulnerability. Each time someone’s words or actions make my son feel wrong or embarrassed or ashamed or not good or smart or strong or realistic enough, his spirit will wilt a teeny bit. I don’t know which moments will take root and stay with him throughout his life, and I can’t prevent the rain from coming, but I can try my hardest to keep him safe and dry.

Thankfully, my son is thriving this year. His teacher has given him the time and space to explore his creativity, build self-confidence, and let his talent bloom unfiltered and uninhibited. In fact, considering all of the “great job!” stickers and “very creative!” notes I see on his schoolwork and art projects, it’s possible that she admires his beautiful (and wacky and funny and wild and bold and very unrealistic) mind as much as I do.

rileyarttoilet

Maybe.

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Filed under art, boys, school