In my professional life, I have a passion for striking the balance between how high and low a bar is set in order that my students are able to experience repeated increments of success and competency. I have a strong belief that every child is able to master a task given the proper tools. I also have a strong belief that not every child needs the same tool to complete the same task. That being said, I would never expect a person to change a tire with a wooden spoon. Given a plethora of appropriate tools, opportunities, support and encouragement, I have seen children flourish in my classrooms who were previously categorized and labeled, G-d forbid, as "difficult," "lost causes," or "behaviorally challenged."
We all have comfort zones. They can be as difficult to remain in as they are to leave. As educators, we tackle the challenge of determining just how far outside of a comfort zone to take a student. Our timing, tools and demeanor must all line up impeccably. Our successes are our students' successes; our students' setbacks are our own as well. This is a delicate dance that is exquisitely orchestrated to appear as graceful as it possibly can. Life is a collection of mountains and molehills; growing up is a process of navigating those and determining which are which. Sometimes, when you are quite small, everything feels like a mountain. But from the top, the world is vast and tiny below us. From the top, we gain a different perspective altogether. And so, it often becomes about finding our way to the top of that molehill in order to see that we have truly ascended a mountain!
Parenthood is also a journey of assisting our little ones to ascend those mountains. The trickier part is that our vision in the process is often compromised by bias and attachment. It is harder to separate our mountains from our children's molehills and not to make the former of the latter. We live near an amazing playground that is set up in conjunction with an agency that caters to children and adults with disabilities. The playground is truly the essence of the inclusion model in action, with equipment accessible and appealing to all ages, abilities and interests. There are accessible swings, slides, climbing structures, musical instruments, sensory walls, water tables, an accessible tree house and even a vegetable garden.
Throughout the year it is perfectly normal to share the playground with children and adults who have special needs as well as the public at large. During the summer months, they host a series of free special events for kids and this week they had an instrument petting zoo hosted by our local symphony. S loves instruments and music and he loves the park itself. I packed our bags the night before and got everyone in the car bright and early so we could be among the first to get there. As it was, I arrived to find only one spot left in the lot and the car on the right of it too far over the line to fit in. Not to worry, I just parked in a school lot across the street, loaded the boys into our double stroller and darted across the road to the playground where S began to play. About 20 minutes later, the musicians arrived with their violins, a cello, a flute and clarinet for the children to touch and try. I gathered the troops to wait on line for S to have a turn, when I realized he looked nervous. He loves instruments! He loves the park! He does not love big crowds... And it was really crowded. As our turn approached, I encouraged, I prodded and nudged, I even pushed and resorted to a little bit of mommy guilt: "You love instruments and we drove all the way here just to see them!" No use. S wanted to get out of the line. He wanted to go back in the stroller. He wanted to go home. Now, my driving time was going to outweigh our time actually spent in the park! I accepted this fate as we neared the front gate, but asked S if he was absolutely sure he wanted to go home or if he wanted to stay and just play in the park. He decided to stay, and within minutes, was busy climbing and playing and dancing around the playground as usual, leaving, albeit, a wide berth around the busy area where the event was taking place!
I stood with Y in the stroller thinking to myself. Why was it so important to me that S push through his discomfort and try the instruments? Was this his challenge or mine? I also do not love crowds. I push through that to take the kids to these types of things, but it's still not my favorite. And there are plenty of discomforts I don't push through for the kids--like driving in highways or throwing big parties... Was I worried he would regret the decision or just stuck on the fact that by not driving on highways, the trip took about half an hour each way? Perhaps I was stuck on not having a picture perfect image to share of S trying out a cello or a violin. Perhaps I was stuck on memories of molehills that were too mountainous for me to overcome and I wanted to protect S (or myself) from feelings of failure. And then I heard it. From the top of that little mulch mountain.
"I did it! Look at me! I'm at the top!" It was S, shouting at himself with pride because for the first time, this little boy who had a difficult time sitting and crawling and walking had now climbed up the back of the hill, the most challenging surface to ascend, all by himself. He didn't need me to see it or praise it, but I sure as heck responded with "Wow, look at you! You're at the top! You must feel so proud!" I felt proud, too--but this accomplishment was his and his alone. He didn't need my pride.
He spent the rest of our morning at the park going back and forth between all of his favorite areas, but again and again returning to the scene of this newfound success. I took him home tired, soaking wet, and covered in mud; our trip was therefore a success as well. After a change of clothes and some lunch, it was time to go up for a nap. S asked to pick a toy to bring upstairs (this is a new favorite activity of his--bringing toys up and down) and he chose his little firetruck. As he and his firetruck walked up the stairs, he told a story about how his firetruck was "at the park and he touched the instruments..."
"You're thinking about the instruments today, huh?" I said.
"Yeah. I didn't want to touch the instruments." he responded.
"It's OK that you didn't want to touch the instruments this time. There will be other times and you don't have to touch the instruments. It's not a requirement. You did climb up, up, up to the top of that mountain all by yourself! Was that fun?"
"That was fun! I had a good time!" he said, and I tucked that little mountain climber into his bed, next to a toy firetruck that seems way too hard and plastic to sleep with...but my job as his mommy is to pick our battles and sometimes that means not making my own mountains out of his molehills.
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