Back to the GRIND (Ruby)

Every day I have been meaning to write, to update my life in this space…but simply haven’t, no excuses, no perfect “dog-ate-my-homework” story…not that writing to you in the blogosphere is a “homework assignment”...in any case, this is a place I try to be, consistently-ish, but sometimes I find myself other places. Inexplicably.

School started. For the most part, with the exception of last night, you might not guess this by observing my children. There is not yet an overriding, anguished huddling over textbooks at night, but rather a predictable amount of time - between the 3 youngest kids (10, 12, 15) - at their computers recreationally, skateboarding, biking, scootering, hanging out with friends, watching the Simpsons, etc. For us, this is essentially what the summer also looked like. Which is nice because I feel like the first couple of weeks back at school have not upset the apple-cart, which is one of my goals as a Mom…in a general way. Even though I believe truly that changes are healthy and can be invigorating, I am never ready to embrace change that feels more like electric shock therapy.

I sense that there are kids who are already SLAVING away with the grind of homework. This makes me sad…year after year. I have listened to parents and teachers talk about homework in intellectual terms and I can nod my head in token agreement over why, in theory, we would all want our kids to have the opportunity to “practice” what they are learning, to take it all into their own hands, to exert and assert their various skill-sets, say it in their own words, spit it all back out, integrate it, share it, remember it.

But in my head, I hear the words: Bull-shit.

I want my kids to finish up their school-business at school, a novel idea, I know. Keep them in school for an hour longer or extend the classes measurably, let them learn and re-learn…in an environment where the experts are all around them. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: when I went to a strict all-girl’s school in London in the late ‘60’s – something right out of a Dickens-style setting, all cold grey brick, scratchy brown tweed uniforms against bare legs, horrifyingly scary and controlling teachers in long black capes that flowed behind them like the wings of bats, wide open windows in the classrooms in January to KEEP US AWAKE and detentions that were handed out to the many unsuspecting, less-than-perfect children who were continuously shocked to find out that this or that had just qualified them as “disobedient” – I was happy to apply myself because the expectations for the school, itself, to uphold standards as well as for the girls to reciprocate with hard work and respect was the whole point. And a completely viable one. We started school at 8:30 am and we finished at 4:00pm. We went home tired, educated, and without any homework, essentially…other than an occasional miniscule task that would not make or break the outcome of our “grade”. A huge part of our success during school hours was based on our “deportment”; our posture, how we sat (knees touching, legs at right angles), walked and carried ourselves, how graciously we listened, that we remembered not to interrupt, not talk out of turn, not forget to wash our hands before lunch…all of this mattered enormously. If you did it right, you got a deportment badge…a slim red jewel-tone pin that caught the light nicely against our chocolate colored uniform sweaters. A badge that could be worn with pride because it meant you were holding up your part of the deal in the challenge called “growing up”, and becoming an accountable person, while learning!

I never learned more than I did at that school; the curriculum was robust and the expectations for not just scraping by but for being fully engaged and immersed were a given. Not everyone wore a deportment badge, but there was nothing elitist or exclusive about aspiring to receive one; we were all on the same page, wanting the same outcomes, wanting the same education…where a perfect French accent mattered, perfect grammar mattered, perfect spelling mattered, math was to be done in pen & ink because it mattered that we knew what we were writing down versus scrubbing sleepily with an eraser at the lame attempts of our number 2 pencils.

Home was where I went when I had done my day as a student. I would draw, eat, watch T.V., play the piano, play with my siblings, be with my Mother, get ready for the next day with excitement and with a feeling of being perfectly refreshed.

As you know, a couple of my kids have special needs within the school environment; Louki has a unique school situation to accomodate his severe non-verbal autism. I am really excited for him this year because his Case Manager is not fearful or hesitant regarding Louki’s moods or abilities. He’s in the choir this year, in a theater class, working with a 1:1 aide at a part time volunteer job…as the first rung in the ladder towards his adult life. It is all complex for him but I so embrace the interest in leaping versus baby-stepping into new areas on the part of his new staff this year.

Ollie, too, has a special situation and I’ll be meeting with his teachers first thing in the morning; I asked that we meet asap to discuss the repercussions of his Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I care for him like he’s made out of glass sometimes, making sure his breakfast is his “dream breakfast”, that he gets a cup of warm cocoa every morning (Ovaltine, actually, because it has a better nutritional profile) that I lay out his clothes to avoid the stress of having him needing to hunt for socks, etc., on his own; I hope so desperately for him to walk away from this house each morning with his spirit in tact. He’s 10 but he’s my baby and he so easily spins out of control when he is in a particularly turbulent place, as he is now.

The one thing he wanted to do when he got home from school today was to lie with me on his bed for one full hour of the Simpsons. Uninterrupted. I bought his favorite bagels and a bottle of chocolate milk for a treat and we started the show. His arms and legs flailed in accordance with patterns and numbers, exacting certain rituals he needs to repeat almost non-stop as part of his OCD; the whole thing is a colossal invasion and he expends inordinate energy trying to tame the mammoth drive to ritualize and repeat, rehearse…restrain, start again…with more urgency each time….

It helps my children to have free time; they are not perfect children, they don’t always use their time “perfectly”, they are not profoundly academic or athletic but they all have a thirst for things that interest them, they are resourceful and they rely on a feeling of coziness and freedom in our home. They are relatively peaceful and creative and their afternoons and lives are not choreographed by me, in part because there are too many of them for me to afford all the things I might let them nibble on extracurricularly, but also in part because I think that much of the brilliance of childhood comes from leaving kids to their own means, to the impromptu spirit within. We were all stellar participants in the moment-by-moment unfolding of our days and lives, when I was growing up. We didn’t have to be sucked into the undertow of extracurricular mayhem. We could play and wander and wonder, and wriggle our way out of boredom, much of the time.

Last night was more disruptive than any other since school started because Bowie was confused by his 7th grade math homework; we argued about what we each thought the answers should be, we squabbled over the “right” technique, we disagreed about whether the assignment had been done neatly enough, whether the effort made had been appropriate. For me, this is an ugly way to spend my time with my kids and I dream of an alternative like what I had in London at Bowie’s age.

Either way, we’ll plug along and do our best within the homework culture that is so very popular here, but I will never disapprove of the dreamy far-away look in a child’s eyes – at home - that tells me he or she is on a journey of his/her own making.

Ruby