permit me to gripe for a moment

I went to a presentation at The Bean's school this evening. It was an introduction to the gifted program to parents of kids in the program. The principal, the head of the department, and the teachers all seem like pretty amazing people. They talked about integrating the kids' learning to their other intrinsic interests, whether they are artistic, sports-related, social-justice minded, or naturally more academic. They talked about the various types of giftedness, about how gifted people - and gifted children in particular - are people who care deeply about things, and how the faculty see it as their role as educators to help nurture that. They talked about a leadership camp where kids get to know each other, but also themselves. In short, they talked about expanding kids' horizons and teaching them to spread their wings.

I was really excited, and happy, to see that my girl is in such good hands.

Then came the parents' questions. They started well enough: what does homework for kids in this program look like? What are the expectations in terms of learning tools (do I need to buy my kid an iPad!)? How can we, as parents, support, what you are teaching them in terms of organizational skills, time management, and stress relief? All great questions.

Then things got weird, or as I like to say it: they got stupid.

One parent said his kid feels like his day of learning is done with school and turns to video games at the end of the day: teachers, what are you going to do about that? My thought: dude, first of all, your kid is learning all kinds of problem-solving and strategic skills (I say this as the former unofficial Tetris champion of my class), and second of all, that's your problem, not the teachers'. The principal's answer: much more patient, with a nod to working with parents to expand a child's interests, to motivate the child in a different direction, etc. Then another parent complained about buses. Now remember: kids are now taking public transportation to school. She basically blamed the teachers because her kid took the wrong bus home on day one. I couldn't abide by it. I spoke up: "That's the parent's responsibility. We practice the bus route with them." She responded back that her kid knew she had to take a certain bus back home but the teacher had told her otherwise. We actually got into a strained, raised-voice conversation about whose responsibility this was (I heard a couple of parents behind me grumble that it shouldn't be up to the teachers).

I had to step back after my third response to this woman, because I knew I wasn't getting anywhere. But I was so angry. We put a lot of expectations on teachers not only to teach our kids what's on the curriculum, but to go beyond that and help usher them into responsible personhood and citizenry. I agree that it's part of their role. But we as parents are responsible for most of that. Why can't we own up to what we are called to do? Also, why can't we accept that our kids make mistakes? That little girl got on the wrong bus because the teacher said, "here's the 600 bus that takes you to the Rideau Centre. It stops here." He didn't say: "take this bus." And even if he had, if the girl new she was supposed to take the 18, shouldn't she have questioned why she was being told to take the 600? And even if she didn't, she made a mistake. At the end of the day, a mom should just say to her kid, "look kiddo, you made a mistake. You're home safe and sound now, and you know not to take that bus. Take the other one, like we talked about."

Instead of letting our kids fall down a little - and letting them learn from falling down - we insulate them and blame others for not cushioning the fall. At a certain point, we all need to get bruises and scrapes. That's how we learn.

The worst part is that these are parents of "gifted" kids - the sorts of kids who are apparently above average at problem solving. Only it sounds like some of them don't even have the opportunity to do that much. At the beginning of the presentation, we were told that the skills of the 21st century are those of problem-solving and good judgment. Let's let go of our kids a bit and give them the space to make mistakes, pick themselves up, learn, and feel proud. They will surely learn to soar much more quickly.

on her own

Today was The Bean's first day of junior high school - grade 7. Her school goes from grade 7 to grade 12. The 7s and 8s have a separate schedule from the bigger kids, but they are all in the same building.

I was more than a little trepidatious to send her out there, and that's not like me. On her first day of daycare, I dropped her off and she skipped happily away. My heart sank a little, but I knew she was in good hands and she was clearly happy. On her first day of kindergarten, she was so excited to be going to school, and she loved the idea of the school bus. I was proud of my little independent girl who was clearly capable of taking on the world - in that protected sort of way. There was always a grown up to lead her to another grown up: I put her on the bus, in the care of the bus driver, who released her into the care of the teacher, who in turn put her back on the bus, then back directly into my arms. Easy.

Today, it was not so easy. Today, I dropped my kid off at a giant school (I remember it feeling pretty big when I went there in grade 9), and watched her cross the street and into that courtyard. She stood around, waiting for a familiar face.

"She's so small," said Boo from the back seat, voicing my exact thoughts.

She was going to have to find her way to the auditorium, then listen carefully for roll call so she would know where to go next. At lunchtime, she was going to have to find her own way to the cafeteria, then to outside, then back in, in time for her afternoon classes. Then, the big test: the city bus all on her own. I was sick with the thought of it, every time it surfaced to my conscious mind over the course of the summer. She is little. She's not quite 12, and weighs all of 80 pounds. This kid could get crushed in those packed buses!

So we practiced yesterday. It didn't go as smoothly as I'd hoped, with The Bean nearly missing our stop on the way home, then not getting up quickly enough to make it to the door to get out in time. But there was no more time for practice. At some point, it's showtime. That was this afternoon. I made her promise to send me an email as soon as she got home (we don't have a land line, and there's no use wasting minutes with a call when an email will do).

I was worried when it was nearly 5:00 and I hadn't heard anything. Then I got this email, correct grammar in the subject field and all:

It was a bad bus ride, but I'm home

Hi Mommy, I'm just got home. My bus ride looked something like this: 

- I waited for the bus with T. and another girl from the school

- We got all the way to that shopping centre where you told me not to ever get off at (the Rideau Centre; if you're from Ottawa, you understand my instructions)

- The bus crashed into another bus and the bottom window of the back door was all cracked

- We all had to get off the bus and the three of us sticked together

- We tried to call the other girl's dad but her phone didn't work

- We missed the next bus

- We got onto the following bus

- I got home safely and went to send you an email after going to the bathroom. 

That was my bus ride.  


So yeah, she's got this. Phew.

enough heartbreak for one night

I am heartbroken tonight. This time last night, I read the news that Robin Williams had taken his own life after a battle with depression. While I find the news of his death sad, it is not that news that breaks my heart tonight.

Tonight, I remember my brother, Jeff, and his own struggle with depression that ended with his death, almost 18 years ago.

Today I read articles on depression, articles and posts by distress centres, facebook posts and tweets on how family and friends need to reach out to loved ones.

I do not disagree that we need to reach out to those in pain - that is a given. But I believe it is a mistake to believe that the reaching out alone is a panacea or a cure. That is like assuming that because you've told a cancer victim you love them and are there for them that they will instantly go into remission. Worse, and I know people do not mean this when they say "reach out," it makes those who are left behind after a suicide feel like they could have done more. I could have called one more time. I could have stayed on the line longer. I could have visited more. I could have taken him out more. I could have sent more messages. I could have told him how special he is. I could have….

I could have nothing. There is absolutely nothing more I could have done that would have changed my brother's mind that night when he climbed into his car, turned the ignition, and sat there in a closed garage, waiting, certainly heartbroken at the futility and impossibility of it all. Nothing is exactly what more I could have done. Or my mom. Or his best friend. We all did something. Multiple somethings. But he was sick. We loved him so very much, but he was sick.

Mental illness is so complex. Laymen like me and you cannot fix it. Should we stop reaching out? No. The same way we should reach out to friends and family who are dying of cancer, heart disease, ALS, whatever. Love them. Always love them.

And just as a patient who has chest pains goes to the hospital, those with mental illness need quality care. That's where the help comes from. I don't know how to cure cancer. I don't know how to cure depression. But I can advocate on my loved one's behalf. I can raise awareness by talking about the disease. I can fundraise. I can. So many things.

I have no answers to what exactly one should say or do. I wish I did. But I do ask that we refrain from the easy "just reach out" as an answer. Enough heartbreak for one night.

the close of a chapter

I came home tonight to a thin, nondescript letter that had my full name, including middle names, handwritten on the envelope. It didn't look official in any way. So I was surprised when I opened it. The first thing I noticed was the seal. The second thing I noticed was the legal language. The third thing I noticed was that I'd stopped breathing.

On August 31, the order will be in force, and I will be divorced.

I cried. I texted my best friend. I called another friend. I mowed the lawn, because that's what needed doing.

I came back inside to a text that said, Necessary closure if you're going to move forward and that includes a future that is status quo or completely different. I cried some more. It is absolutely true. No matter what I do tomorrow, or next month, or next year, this part needs to be behind me. I have already begun the next part.

So that chapter closes with these words:

au compte-goute

My moments with the children are measured, drops into a vast bucket. Never enough at a time. Never enough to fill to the brim.

Once, I was drowning. I couldn't breathe. I grabbed onto life preservers; some tore me up a fair bit. A drowning woman can't tell a buoy from a stone. I told him I had to go. I had to be in a wide-open space, alone. He thought I meant without the kids. I could not even fathom the idea of leaving them. Alone includes them.

My moments with the children are measured. Sunday afternoon to Sunday afternoon. With a break mid-week, so it's never seven days.

Once, I would feel relief at the end of the week, when they were leaving to go to Dad. The near-drowning had left me so very tired. I loved them and held them for dear life. We fought and they wanted to know why, why. They wanted to fix it, I know.

The tide turned at some point. The whys abated; my breathing steadied. Now I began counting in reverse, till the moment I would see them again.

We drove the country, those children and me, and I never felt so happy and so free as I was in the great, gorgeous openness of the Saskatchewan prairie. Past the waters and into the wide, wonderful sky. I breathed. We breathed together.

Nineteen days. That's the longest I've ever gone without seeing them. One day, I know it will be so much longer. When one of them decides to go off to school, or to take a year or a few months to travel. Or they move to another city for a job. For now, I live in a sort of denial that those days exist somewhere in the vague future. Last night we broke the 19-day streak. While they were still fighting off jet lag, I picked them up at Dad's and we set out for gelato. Ninety minutes. An hour and a half of chatting, laughing, hugging, teasing, sharing. Never quite enough to fill to brim, but it will do.