Oh No! My Kid Has Human Childhood Growth Syndrome (HCGS), AKA Being a Four-Year-Old-Boy

12/10/2009

I headed into my first official “parent-teacher” conference with the feeling I was going to get blind-sided, and I was not wrong.

It all started with Punk’s teacher saying, “Well, he does like to go off by himself. He really gets into those books. And then you can’t tear him away. He doesn’t want to participate in class. He just won’t listen.”

“Oh right,” I say, immediately defensive but pretending not to be. “He is such a reader. I’m so glad. I always loved to read….”

“Yes, but he doesn’t listen. He won’t participate when we ask him to.”

“Right right. Not so good. Well sometimes he needs, some, you know…encouragement…”

“Short of bribing him with obscene amounts of candy, nothing is working.”

It goes around and around like this, with me defending, and her, increasingly, well, railing. Until finally, exasperated, I say, “What, do you think he has a problem? ADHD or something?”

She cocks her head like our dog, Simba, does when she’s suddenly interested. “Not ADHD. He’s not hyper enough for that but….”

“What?? Autism?!”

Great. Now I’ve dropped the A-bomb.

“Weeeeell, I’m not a doctor….but,” she says, suddenly all coy.

So I stagger out of there under the weight of the A-bomb, with only a directive to keep an eye on him—“it doesn’t really show up until age five or six”—and to get his eyes tested in case there’s a vision problem, which we’re already doing (see last blog).

So, of course, I’m distracted, miserable, fuming, and completely useless once I get to work. It doesn’t take much for co-workers to hear why—I spill easily. And they respond as I’d hoped—indignantly.

“Oh hello! He’s not listening? He’d rather be doing something else than your classroom activity? What? A four-year-old not listening and wanting to do his own thing? Unheard of. Let’s slap a label on him and make it his problem. His parents’ problem. Not anything, I, the teacher, am doing wrong!”

This is why I love my co-workers. They say exactly what I’m thinking, only better.

I mean, is a four-year-old naturally inclined to drop everything he’s doing and pay attention to an adult? I think not. A four-year-old just wants to be a four-year-old—fiddling, fidgeting, splashing, breaking stuff, throwing—whatever it is that gets him going. Not adhering to adult-sanctioned classroom activities in 15-minute time blocks.

This whole business of indoor society, with its desks, schedules, and seat time, is a relatively new invention, after all, and is hard enough for adults to stick to—think of all those people at work who wander the halls and take endless smoke breaks.

It wasn’t that many centuries ago that we were all out on the plains stalking our next meal. We adults all had an obvious sense of purpose—putting buffalo on the table.

So there was no worry about finding a vocation and no worry about our kids getting bored, misbehaving, or manifesting some behavioral disability. Like a lioness’s cubs, they ran after us when we hunted or gathered berries, and frolicked around us when we napped, getting the occasional swat when they got too irritating.

OK, I got a bit off track there, but here's the thing: I think we’ve just gotten too civilized, and in the process gone way overboard in pathologizing our kids.

Nevertheless, being a cyberchondriac, I of course have to go online and research the Autism Spectrum Disorders—there's a whole range from mild to severe, all involving social withdrawal and repetitive behaviors.

If you want to know the truth, I see more of myself than my son in this diagnosis. Since becoming a parent, my social life is down the tubes—I spend more time with my nose in a book than talking to people. Socializing is now limited to Facebook. And all day long I type on a keyboard and stare at a computer screen. If that's not a repetitive behavior, I don't know what is.

What I do know is Punk is the most affectionate kid I've ever seen. When I get home from work, he runs up, throws he arms around me and declares, "Mommee, I love you!" Not even our dogs give me that kind of greeting (one pees; the other knocks me over.) I also know he's crazy about music. Nothing gets him dancing and grinning like Bob Marley's "Three Little Birds," or "I Like to Move It," from the movie Madagascar.

Lest I be accused of being in denial, I've gone ahead and made two pediatrician appointments for him in the New Year—one with a general ped, the other with a developmental ped.

And yes, I should go ahead and have him evaluated by the school district. Because, as my mother wisely points out, if he does need special services, you can't get them without the {cough, hairball} label.

But I'm skeptical. Very skeptical. Because to me, Punk is Punk. And he's perfect just the way he is.

'I Don’t WANNA Go to School. You Can’t MAKE Me!' Oh, But I Can Sweet-Talk You

11/12/2009

T-Rex is hunched on the couch, arms folded, glaring at me.

He’s staked his position, and he’s not budging: “I don’t like playschool. I’m staying here!”

I’m glaring back at him, BlackBerry in my backpack buzzing work requests it seems I will never get to.

We had an episode like this not so long ago, involving both T-Rex and his twin brother, Punk. They pretty much staged a mutiny against school, and I devised what I thought was a brilliant solution. I told them we were going on safari. Punk’s favorite stuffed animal, “Elephant,” had gone missing, so I suggested we go find him. The search would just happen, you know, during the walk to school.

I strapped on their safari hats, and boy did my ploy work. They were out the door in seconds, running down the street calling “Elephant! Elephant!”

We had a few hitches. Like Elephant had recently scratched his butt (which required a band-aid), and there was some concern that he was incapacitated. Also, Punk decided we couldn’t move forward without a map. Luckily, I produced an imaginary one that he then kept checking. We looked for Elephant behind bushes, under leaf piles, and up in the trees (I know I know, elephants don’t generally climb trees, but you do what you have to do).

The whole thing went gangbusters until I steered them into their school. They immediately lay down on the floor, screaming and wailing that they thought they were on safari, not going to school. And, well, I felt like a jerk for duping them.

So now I have the same school-resistance problem with T-Rex, but obviously I’m not going to do the safari bait-and-switch again. I’ve got to plot some other response. Trouble is, dealing with T-Rex takes some serious maneuvering. A mini version of his grandfather, he’s every bit as smart—and stubborn.

I need a political strategist on this one. Where is David Axelrod when you need him?

I’ve already tried the appeal to sympathy:  {sigh} “C’mon sweetie-pie, you’re going to make mommy late for work.”

T-Rex: Glare. Pout.

And the appeal to reason. “T-Rex, you don’t have a choice here. Sometimes mommy and daddy don’t feel like going to work, but we have to. And you have to go to school.”

Frown. "I’m staying HERE!”

Tick tock, tick tock. Now I really am late for work.

I resort to coercion, grabbing him by the hand and pulling him to the door. “Look bucko! I don’t have time for this. Come ON!”

This, of course, prompts him to park himself on the floor and draw the most effective weapon in his arsenal: tears.

“I don’t.” [sniffle] “Wanna go.” [choke] “I don’t” [snort] “Liiiiiiiiike it theeeeere.”

Now, as planned, he’s got me. I can’t have tears, so I’ll have to try an extreme tactical shift. Even though it’s against my cynical nature, I opt for the pep talk.

I roll up my sleeves, sit next to him on the sofa, and ask if there's a problem at school. He shakes his head, no. Time to turn on the sunshine:

"T-Rex, sure you like it at playschool! You get to eat syrupy pancakes for breakfast. And sing songs. And play with the computer. And [I'm reaching now] and Ms. Johnson is there. She reeaaally likes T-Rex. You're her favorite!"

T-Rex considers this for a moment. Then he jumps off the sofa and gets all puffed up. "Oh yeah. I'm the best boy. I'm the strongest, big boy too. I'm Ms. Johnson's biggest boy of all. And I have really strong muscles." He flexes a bit, then puts on his jacket, all ready for school.

Touchdown! I'm dumbfounded that this tack actually worked. And I'm curious whether any of the strategies I tried are actually what experts recommend for tackling (in expert-speak) school refusal, AKA school phobia or school avoidance.

The American Academy of Pediatrics Web site confirms that yes, I was right to insist that he go to school; let a child stay home for no good reason, and the school refusal will only increase.

And, my asking him if there was a problem and playing up the positives of school are also recommended strategies of the site Phobics Awareness. Both sites also recommend speaking with a child's teachers about the problem—that's on my to-do list.

OK, I gotta admit, I was feeling pretty smug after I packed T-Rex off to school and read that I'd, for once, done all the right things. Small victories, folks. Small victories.

And I was still feeling pretty pleased when I went to pick up him up from Ms. Johnson's room after work. Unfortunately, it was not a happy scene. T-Rex was sitting in the corner, sulking, and Ms. Johnson looked, well, tense.

 
"What happened here?" I asked.

"Well, T-Rex got hold of my ink stamp pad, and stamped ALL of my report cards. I mean all of them. Stamps all over them. I'll have to get a whole new set."

Understandably, she was more than a little ticked off. We quickly made our apologies, and I hustled T-Rex out of there.

Crud. T-Rex had just single-handedly obliterated my "You're Ms. Johnson's favorite" tactic. Why am I not surprised?

How to Talk ‘Boy’: Lessons from Calvin and Hobbes

06/03/2009

Why won’t my three-year old listen? I realize this is not an unusual question for parents, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it comes up more with boys.

Because I have two of them (age 3), the question pops up all day long. Take this past Sunday: We step out the door for a walk to the park, and Punk takes off running down the block.

“Stooooooooooooooooooooooop!” I screech at him, but he just keeps running. And running, and running. And I keep yelling, louder and louder, all the while attempting to grab T-Rex, who is swinging from a neighbor’s bush in an effort to snag a rose. It’s only when my screeches approach Banshee-crazy that Punk halts at the curb, inches away from speeding cars  – then flashes me a Brad Pitt  smile.

After the park, we head to the local coffeehouse for some cake and chocolate milk. I seat them at a table and am buying the goods, when I see Punk lunging for the flower vase (roses again), and tipping it upside down.

“PUNK, NO!,” I holler. He keeps turning it over, watching me with a mischievous half smile. “No no no no NO!” Too late. There’s water all over the floor.

When I ask my husband about stuff like this, he just says, “Rea d Calvin and Hobbes. I mean, Calvin is five or six…but that’s about the only difference.”

I do as I’m told, and am duly enlightened about what it takes to get through to a small boy. Example:  In one strip, Calvin is scowling at a plate of food, refusing to eat “this green stuff. Yecchh!“

“Good idea Calvin,” says his dad. “It’s a plate of toxic waste that will turn you into a mutant if you eat it.” On hearing this, Calvin scarfs the green stuff in seconds, prompting his mom to say, “There has GOT to be a better way to make him eat!”

Calvin’s dad just gives her a blank stare.

Ha! So that’s it. You have to actually think like a small boy. Who knew? Now that I finally do, I figure this is how my husband probably would have handled the Punk runaway situation: “Hey Punk, you better STOP if you wanna see the SEWER MONSTER!”

Punk would no doubt have stopped instantly. He is crazy about sewer grates. One of his favorite activities is pressing his face to the grate, butt in the air, gazing rapt into the murky brown waters below. (It’s always interesting to see the looks on pedestrians’ faces as they pass him doing this.)

Problem is, well, I’m an adult woman. Thinking and talking like a small boy doesn’t exactly come naturally to me. I strongly suspect the same is true for other moms.

Still, I decided to give it a shot this morning, when Punk got resistant during the daycare drop-off. Parents are required to take their kids to the bathroom before class, but right now, Punk straight-up refuses to go. I try everything—pleading, running after him, getting tough, sitting at his level and asking. Nothing works.

I rack my brain for possible boy motivators. As I chase him past the infant room, I try, “Hey Punk. Don’t you want to make a pee-pee WATERFALL?” He slows, then stops, considering. “Waterfall?” he says thoughtfully. “Yes, yes, waterfall!” I hold my breath. “Oh yes,” says Punk. “I make pee-pee waterfall.” And he does.

Of course, then he refuses to put on his underwear. So I chase my bottomless son around the classroom with a stack of underwear options, reading them off: “Buzz Lightyear!  Elmo! Roary the Racing Car!”  No luck. That’s when I switch to boy mode. I hold up the Thomas the Train pair, dancing and singing the Thomas the Train theme song. (There are giggles from the day-care staff.) Who cares—it works! “Oh yeah,” says Punk. “I like those underwear.”

But moms and dads don’t always have time to be creative. We need reliable tools for those moments when we’re hurtling through a busy day, and just need our kids to cooperate. I’m thinking of when we’re running five minutes late, and the kid refuses to put on his shoes.

What to do? Here’s what the experts recommend (for a comprehensive guide, see http://health.discovery.com/centers/kids/childrearingtips/discipline_06.html):

• Turn off the television.
• Have a one-to-one talk, explaining why you need him to listen.
• Provide choices—three different pairs of shoes to choose from, for instance. Or you might explain that he needs to put his shoes on before going outside and can do it now or five minutes from now.
• Offer a reward (like he can take his favorite toy in the car with him).
• If nothing else works, try a time out after counting to three.

Perhaps most important, say the experts, is thanking your child when he listens—it’s positive reinforcement.  But if you have the time and capacity for warped thinking, I recommend talking “boy,” like Calvin’s mom learned to do in Calvin and Hobbes. Case in point: In one strip Calvin complains that his mother’s cooking smells like someone got sick in the furnace duct. She tells him she’s made stewed monkey brains. Bingo! He gobbles it down with gusto.