Sometimes, I see my kids lives as these orderly timelines, where say, potty training is a neat little check mark somewhere between ages 2 and 3. But really its more like climbing a mountain called Potty Peak.
There you are, your backpack full of extra clothes and plastic bags. Youve finally reached the alpine zone, that breathtaking treeless expanse from where you can look back on your trail, which includes 2,867 or so diaper changes. Youre so close you can touch the peak, except whoops! as a customer at a local cafe announced, loudly, five years ago: soggy bottomed boy in the train room. Yes, that would be my soggy bottomed boy.
And goodness, were golden with potty training now, but the mountains of childhood keep rising up. And Im realizing that what looks like a mountain to be climbed is more like a labyrinth to be walked. Labyrinths, unlike mazes, have no dead ends, just a single path leading to the center.
Which is to say that while many things come easily to Col, 7, (fabricating traps and drawing sea serpents and caring for his avocado plant); reading and writing do not.
Last week, the kids were making cards for their cousin, and Col said, Im just going to draw a little picture before I write some words, which is like cuing the scary music that foreshadows the ream of crayoned-on paper enveloping the house, smothering the mother who is wondering aloud, from underneath an tsunami of paper, are you ready to write some words now, honey?
What really happened was Col made this amazing dragon with 3 sheets of paper that he cut and taped and colored, scissoring a spiky little tail and a mouthful of sharp teeth, and then requested that we hang it from the ceiling.
And part of me is like, you go on with your artistic self, little guy. And another part is like, wow, that was an elaborate undertaking to get out of writing a few sentences.
And this is how it is right now. Col finds it incredibly frustrating that the double Os in book are pronounced one way, whereas the double Os in hoop are pronounced entirely differently. He gets sort of narcoleptic when I ask him to read, rubbing his eyes and careening into my lap. But, he can build a perfectly accurate and symmetrical LEGO helicopter without ever referencing a picture. If you gave him five random objects from your junk drawer, chances are he could fabricate 10 different things, half of which could be useful, at least to him and his sister. I cant recall him ever being bored.
Cols desire to be read to long outlasts my desire to read to him; his vocabulary and comprehension are stellar. (FYI: Col has been evaluated and does not have learning disabilities/dyslexia; he is just a late bloomer in the reading department).
Sometimes, the orchestra of my mind plays: language arts are stepping stones to entire worlds of learning. Other times, the tune is: Children bloom in their own time. And both are true. Childhood is not something to rush through, and the joy of discovering new skills has an equally sweet taste as the joy of mastery.
And so Col practices reading and writing in some gentle form every day, while I work on relaxing and trusting; and theres always plenty of time for LEGOs and art.
Reach Rachel Turiel at firstname.lastname@example.org.Visit her blog, 6512 and growing, on raising children, chickens and other messy, rewarding endeavors at 6,512 feet.