tuckova

freedom of choices vs. freedom from choice

NIGHT 1
ME: Tonight, instead of arguing, let's vote for which game we play.
FRIAR: Catan!
ME: Catan!
SQUIRE: I want to play Clue.
ME: But we voted.
SQUIRE: I don't care.
[argue argue argue; we play Clue]

NIGHT 2
ME: Do you want to play Clue or Carcassone tonight?
SQUIRE: I want to play TransAmerica, it's my favorite.
ME: But I offered Clue or Carcassone.
SQUIRE: [heavy sigh, with drama] I guess we'll do what you want to do anyway.
ME: Well... I want to play a game.
[we play TransAmerica]

NIGHT 3:
ME: Okay, how about if you narrow it down to two games you want to play, and then we can choose one of those two.
SQUIRE: I don't want to choose only two games. I want to choose five and then you choose one of those.
ME: O... kay?
SQUIRE: Catan, Carcassone, TransAmerica, Risk, or Clue!
ME: Any of those... I guess Catan or Carcassone.
FRIAR: Catan!
SQUIRE: I don't want to play Catan.
[we play Clue and Carcassone]

Whereupon it was determined by me, who is tired of this Every Single Night, that games shall henceforth be played in alphabetical order. HA! It's a very democratic approach the games, albeit not to the players. But it is more democratic than the dictatorship we were sliding into, and sometimes in a democracy we have to do things for the common good, and it's to everybody's benefit to not have a stupid argument over what game to play every. single. night. Amiright.

11/44 = 1/4

We had the quarter-year parent/teacher conference at Squire Tuck's school. BOY do I like his new teacher. She just does so many small subtle things that I think are correct. Like she offered either individual private consultations or she said she could talk to us as a group. Offering to talk to us as a group says: We're all adults here. We're all working on the team that wants our kids educated. This runs circles around standing out in the hallway shifting our weight from one foot to the other for one or two hours, wondering what the hell was going on, and the teacher exhausted by the end. So we sat together and we all heard about little Vaclav and little Martin and little I don't know, some other kids' name that isn't actually a kid in the class. And then some parents stayed behind to talk about private concerns; I stayed behind to tell her I appreciated her approach and how much happier Squire was this year, and that I hoped she'd let us know if there was anything we could be doing.

It's always interesting to hear the parents' side of the story, isn't it? You learn so much. The mother who is defending her child's behavior is the one whose kid is a bully. The one who is surprised to hear that her kid is flailing is also the one who just had a baby. I am the only parent with a notebook for writing down what the teacher says, and I think at first that it is because one of my superpowers is Preparedness! but then it may also be because I'm the only one who can't hold a thought in her head for more than 5 minutes unless it's printed in front of me. I wonder what correlation that will be found between me and my kid, as I sit doodling in the margins of the notebook I brought and listening to the other parents.

No, yeah, I get it.

Out of the nine boys in the class, two have not yet been to the principal's office for discipline problems; one of them is our boy.The teacher says he's in his own world, and existing in that world keeps him from learning as much as he could, but he's not dragging anybody else away with him. It's both good and a little sad. The endless renderings of detailed spaceships, each window perfect, hold him drifting in orbit away from grammar and division; if he didn't have a tutor 3x a week, I doubt he'd be pulling in the Bs and Cs he's getting now. But it seems to me that now he's doing this because the schoolwork is boring and he'd prefer to draw, rather than because he is confused or because he needs the escape, so it's quite an improvement over last year. Baby steps, you know. And you could do worse than be a drawer of starships.

Last month the applications came around for the kids who want to transfer into college prep schools beginning next year. You were supposed to pay for the applications, and we didn't know, and I kept asking him about it and he didn't know, and we went rounds, and the date passed. I spent about 5 minutes being upset about it. Well, maybe a whole day. It's a door, closed, which always makes me want to kick at it. And Friar said: You cannot honestly think he could handle the workload college prep school when he can't even remember to tell us to order the applications. Which is: yeah.

This has been a Squire Tuck update.

2/44 = 1/22

Two weeks of school down. Squire's already lost his locker key and missed a couple homework assignments, but he seems to be holding onto the lunch card, which is impressive. And I think the school supplies thing went okay. Ah, the school supplies thing: I promised Julia I'd tell.

In June, the teachers hand out a list of supplies. This list is all the things the students will need in addition to the previous years' supplies, so you have to remember what all that stuff was (i.e.: the special little white shoes for gym class that became cottage shoes in the summer? remember you need to replace those now; they're not on the list) and also get the stuff that's on the list new this year ( i.e.: four paintbrushes: three large and round, one flat. The large and round ones have to be different sizes, which you didn't know, so Day1 you'll be back at the store getting different sizes). And you also have this stack of notebooks to buy, different sizes and different lines. And even different pens with different ink colors. And each notebook is supposed to have the kid's full information on it, AND a plastic cover. No store is going to have all the notebooks, all the right sized covers, all the pens. So the week before school starts is a mass of parents running around the stationery stores and already resenting the school for all of this, the purpose of which is as far as I can tell to rob you of the last week of summer.

This year I asked Friar to do the shopping with Squire, because last year I nearly had a nervous breakdown in the "tea egg and sugar company" trying to find 6 each of four different kinds of notebooks with the corresponding plastic covers. When facing a nervous breakdown: Delegate. They went to three different stores and still didn't get everything, but finally we got the whole list checked off.

And then in September you drop the kids off at the school, marching bravely through the doors in their new backpacks (when Squire started first grade, his backpack was full of so many supplies that he actually tipped over backwards), and 45 minutes later they pop back out. And the list has changed over the summer, it has always changed, and this year I realized that a Clever Parent would have waited til Day 1, asked for the list on the 45 minute day, and then gotten the stuff, because the first week of school is a JOKE and I feel like a PD Eastman dog: The parents are going around and around. "Go around again!"

Anyway, two weeks. We have the tutor again, so that's going well. And we're remembering this year that life exists beyond school. Last night we played Catan, and Squire and I worked to sing all staccato like Regina Spektor and we worked on dinner together, because it's fun, and because I maintain the hope that through cooking he'll come to appreciate a more balanced diet. Thursday night as Squire piled his plate with the third helping of pasta and cheese (our ironic nod to the Italian pasta strike), bypassing the homemade primavera sauce and the juicy chunks of chicken for which the pasta was supposed to be a side dish, I realized that he eats like a college student. First, there's the stunning quantities, with no parallel weight gain. Also, there's the fixation on white foods. In college, you gravitate towards white food cause it's easy to cook, but Squire genuinely loves the stuff. Toast! Awesome, my favorite! Pasta and white cheese, mmmmm. RAMEN NOODLES ALWAYS YUMMY. Maybe when he goes to college he'll have a love affair with vegetables just to continue in his bizarrosity.

We're doing well, I hope you are, too.

Some people think it helps to slap your forehead

We went to the beer garden yesterday to play Scrabble, which we've done nearly every night for the last week. School starts Monday, so spending every possible evening out of doors, especially for Squire, seems necessary and important. Although it was the same even temp in the apartment yesterday as it is every day, it was colder outside, and my sleeveless dress meant I was unable to spell words other than "freezing". As Squire was anyway not playing, I called him over & begged him to run back to the apartment to get me a sweater. The apartment is less than 15 minutes' stroll from the beer garden, and I thought that Squire, running like the wind, could solve my chattering teeth in about 20 minutes. Bribes were offered. Specific sweaters and their locations were mentioned.

Slightly over 30 minutes later, he ambles back. He was delayed because he went to the bathroom at home. He has a letter from the mailbox. He has his magic wand. You totally know where I'm going with this, don't you.

I myself suffer from recurrent destinesia. I will walk into the bedroom to get my glasses, stand there for a minute, dumbfounded, and wander back out again with no glasses. Did I walk in there to blink myopically at the dustmotes, or what? Ten minutes later I may even do the same thing again. However, if I say the word "glasses" before walking into the room, it kicks the brain over the barrier with ease. How could someone have a clearly described item in his mind, go for the specific purpose of getting it, have a bribe dangling at the end of the line, and ... forget?

Anyway, he went back to get the sweater, and this time it only took 20 minutes. I do understand that it was entirely my fault for forgetting to bring a sweater (I normally do, even in the hottest months), and I understand that my physical unease today is a result of my behavior, not his. However, I am a little worried about this whole "back to school" thing. Between the early onset destinesia and the new "different teacher for every class" system, I think we may have a very long year ahead of us.

The Legend of the Magic Bed

Squire Tuck returns from his week away at camp today, and I told him I'd clean his room while he was gone, because it is beyond the skills of a ten-year-old to handle the mess in there, and sometimes you need a fresh start.

As payment for my cleaning, I am stealing this story that I found in one of his notebooks, which I believe he wrote last year, and which is totally him in a nutshell. Two pages and he's nowhere near the point, and he seems to have abandoned or forgotten that he was even writing a story, and yet it has a certain undeniable charm for me anyway.

When I was in third grade our schooll took a field trip to a place very close to a very old castle to witch we one day went and I there learned about "The Legend of the Magic Bed."

The castle was very old, probably used in the 16th century, in witch Legends, Myths, and Folk Tales were once the true warmer of slaves, beggers, and other people.

Here Beggins the Legend:

In the 16th century when the castle was full of people, a servant ran to the King with a letter in his hand, and gasped: "Your Majesty, Your Majesty! A moment please." So the King folowed the servant into the "Imperial Letter Office" and read:

Dear Oulac the Imperial,

I was just going to ask my trusty servant Ivan to make me some strong coffee when he reminded me that I was to visit you for three days expect me in four hours.

Love,
Mistress Lentantribe

The servant looked at the king.

smarter than a bag of hair

On Tuesday we took Squire Tuck to the doctor, where they determined that he is not brain dead. Sometimes I have trouble deciding whether I am more frustrated by American doctors ("Well, either your hearing loss is permanent or your hearing will come back sooner or later") or Czech doctors. As she fixed the funny hat to his head the nurse told him that he looked like "Little Red Riding Hood".

I told him how in high school and college when I had my hair super short people would call me "sir" and it's nothing to do with you and everything to do with them. And he heard that, I really think he did, but he also is seeing a summer of sweaty long hair stretch in front of him and he said, "When I come home from school today, I want you to cut my hair."

I was a bit sad about it, because his hair is beautiful and healthy and when he jumps up in the air it's the flowing California hair I will never have and part of the reason I used to shave my head: HA. Can't have it, never wanted it anyway. And I hate to think of him doing something because he's giving in to someone else's standards, or even just because he's tired of feeling like he has to justify his own. So it sort of hurt me to get the clippers out.

But on the other hand I absolutely understand the feeling that there are so many things you can't control, so many assumptions people will make no matter your best efforts, and so many times that you're so twisted up in your head that you don't even know whether your need for change is internal or external, but you know you need it and you need it now.

So he got in the tub and I got out the clippers and bzzzzt and it was all gone. We swept it up into a bag to take to the cottage, because human hair repels many critters and it may be nice for the birds, although I think we're late for this year. It's weird to see his skull shape again after a year of growing his hair. If he grows up into a bald man he'll have nothing to fear, as he really has a lovely cranium. His face looks so big, and a bit older, and he seems to have grown into my stubborn jawline in the last 12 months, too. He seems happy about it. I asked him if he worried he might regret it, and he was like: Mom. It is hair, it grows back.

I would maybe eventually like to be smart; not take every event as if it were laden with echoing meaning. I would maybe like to see each moment at its actual value. I would also like to get over this itchy feeling that if I shaved my hair off, I would somehow become as clear-headed as my son seems to me today.

 

tutor to two-two tuckova, part two

hey guess what i went to on tuesday night? an AWESOME parent teacher conference. who knew, right?

Friar Tuck couldn't go so i stood in the little line outside the classroom reading my new margaret atwood book (love!) and pretending not to listen to the woman who likes to complain about how much she hates the teacher, how much she hates the school, how her precious boy has never done anything wrong and she has had it up to here and blah. this woman is very good for me because she makes me feel a glimmer of something like sympathy for the teacher.

not that i haven't expressed hatred for the teacher, because i have. but i don't think Squire Tuck is pure and i don't think we're without blame in the problems he has. and i haven't stood out in the hallway in front of her classroom unleashing a non-stop tirade against her door. i've dumped my tirade here so that i could go into the meetings with my hands free, ready for whatever kind of working together could be accomplished.

anyway, so the teacher (she doesn't know Squire Tuck has a tutor, shhh) says that she's seen a vast, marked improvement in his attitude and in his schoolwork since the last meeting. she's very pleased. she's delighted. she's amazed. it's true that she has also sort of half-heartedly started alerting us to upcoming tests, for which the tutor has been thus able to help Squire Tuck study. i gave her a lot of credit for that, because it has helped a lot to know wtf is going on in school.

this is what i have so far, this series of revelations: 1) this teacher cannot teach Squire Tuck what he needs to know for school (acknowledged 11/2005); 2) i cannot teach Squire Tuck what he needs to know for school (acknowledged approx. 4/2006); 3) Friar Tuck cannot teach Squire Tuck what he needs to know for school (acknowledged 11/2006); however (formally recognized 1/2007) apparently SOMEBODY can teach Squire Tuck, and (like always) when you stop banging your head against the wall and try the door handle, it's like ahhhhhhhff cooourssse!

should've gotten a tutor ages ago.

then i went down the hall to talk to the german teachers who are beside themselves with frustration over how Squire Tuck CAN and yet WON'T. haha, ladies, welcome to my world. "but he's so smart... he's so! smart! he could do anything! he just won't try!" so they were kind of wet hennish. fortunately i was feeling charming and also very favorable towards them because of the fabulous trip to vienna last month, in which Squire Tuck realized that english was Not Enough and that german could be Useful, which is when he started admitting that he had homework. so by the end of it there we all were in the german teacher's lounge shaking our heads and laughing and vowing to work together and holy smokes, y'all. that was probably the first parent/teacher conference at which i neither pressed half-moons of blood from my palms nor cried on the way home nor any of the other things that i was coming to think were like, as much a part of the conference as olives are part of martinis.

i gave the tutor a raise today, btw. he best not get another job while we're gone in february.

disarming

i am thinking so hard these last few days that my head actually hurts. look! i will spare you all that with instead a lovely little slice of life story.

yesterday i asked Squire Tuck to do a few things and he agreed; in fact we stopped just shy of spitting in our hands before shaking on it, so heartily did we agree and discuss the rewards and penalties for sticking with the agreement vs. not (respectively). about five minutes after i left the room he told Friar Tuck he was done (uhm, no) and the two of them went to the store.

i was in my lowercase rage by the time they came back, that is to say not a full towering inferno of rage, which i reserve for catching someone in a direct and hurtful-to-me lie, but up there. i know that Squire Tuck felt that what i wanted him to do was not necessary (the list included things like "brush his teeth") and i know that Friar Tuck thinks that since the consequences are on Squire Tuck (dental care being covered, it is Squire Tuck who will suffer from bad dental hygiene) then it's up to Squire Tuck to get stuff done. but. but. but. so they came home and i was all grumbledy grumble grr. and Squire Tuck put his hands on the sides of my face and looked me full in the eye and said, i know you are angry, but i really really think i did what i really have to do, and it's me who takes the punishment if i'm wrong, so you really shouldn't be mad at me when i'm trying to take my own responsibility." then gave me a full hug for about a minute.

and he goes, "now i know that was kind of manipulative in a way because i know it's hard for you to be mad after i give you a hug. but in another way, it made you feel better, right, so is it still manipulative?"

bully for you

yeah, so Squire Tuck got beaten up in school a couple weeks ago.

to say that he's one of the bravest people i know is the spin i like best for this right now. as in, the morning after it happened i told him he didn't have to go to school if he didn't feel like it, and he said, "they made me really sad and they made me really mad, but i don't want them to feel like they made me afraid, and the best way to show them that is to go back to school." and he went.

it's hard, the way you want desperately to be and to show that you are 100% on his side. it's hard because the first thing is that you want to say "how did it get to this point?" and you want your kid to be able to take responsibility for his part, if he had one. everything starts somewhere. but it's not about who started it, once he's on the floor and someone else is kicking him.

Squire Tuck is not the only one being targeted. Squire Tuck is perhaps the only one who was held down by one kid while other kids kicked him, but Squire Tuck is not the only one afraid to go to school. Squire Tuck is not the sole target, and more obviously Squire Tuck is not the only person hurt by this. it's all very messy. it is smeared with pain. bullies suck.

so there's been a class meeting, and we've had a meeting with the teacher, and with the school psychologist. it's all quite informative. to say that i'm furious would be an understatement, but what i want is not retribution, but resolution. i want it to stop; i want it to be stopped for good.

anyway, anyway. this horrible thing happened to my boy. the things about it that suck are nearly everything. the things that do not suck are of interest and so i will share them:

about Squire Tuck: what saves this story is that Squire Tuck told me about it, that he knew it had to be talked about, and when he was done talking and listening he said he didn't feel like talking about it any more for a while. there is licking wounds and there is picking scabs, and Squire Tuck knows which is which. that's a strength. and i liked that when we talked about it, that he doesn't think of this in terms of what he should change about himself so that it doesn't happen again, but in terms of how he should deal with this person so that it doesn't happen again. he knows he's not broken. i think that's awesome.

about others: this feeling i have that everyone i tell becomes part of this mass of people behind us, this collection of people who love Squire Tuck and see him for who he is. is he a silly boy, is he american, does he have blue eyes, is he small for his age, does he have a freakish fondness for swords and fantasy? yes. is discussing these things moving towards solving the problem? no, not really. because first of all, we can't change most of it, and secondly, he's not the one who did something wrong. i knew i'd have to cover some ground again that i'm tired of covering; i expected that. BUT! i did not expect his friend's mother to take me out for wine and perspective; his circus teacher to offer to walk him to school; my parents to make a late-night call offering any assistance i could imagine. friends and family: the army of Squire Tuck.

so that's where we are.

tutor to two-two tuckova

i dream that my ear itches and i go looking for a q-tip. they're not on the bathroom shelf where they usually are; they're on a different shelf, but it's not any kind of a stressful hunt or anything, just, huh, different shelf. i wake up and my ear itches and i go looking for the q-tips, which i now remember i moved to the top shelf a few days ago. "well, well, you!" i tell my reflection, "you make my dreams come true!"

kids these days: which is more surprising, that a third of all czechs (mostly young people) don't have any idea what happened on november 17th, or that only a third of california students passed their physical fitness test? those who cannot remember the past will be condemned to do sit-ups.

ah, here's a topic. i hired a tutor for Squire Tuck last week. he starts this week so i have no real evaluation yet. i just know that Friar Tuck is unable to get over the wall that is Squire Tuck's lack of organization, focus, and mainly interest, and i gave up slamming my head against it last year. grades have been slightly worse than poor this year. he comes home with homework that Friar Tuck is only able to explain by virtue of his fascination with grammar ("ah, this pluperfect verb is derived from the noun that shares a root word with this other noun"), and then Squire Tuck pulls stuff like, "now, what's a noun again?" Friar Tuck has a full head of beautiful hair and i can't watch him tear it out anymore; nor am i about to put my own long luxurious locks* at stake. i signed on for a number of things in parenting, including the understanding that i would be puked on more than twice, but i am not ready to drill a child endlessly in subjects about which he does not give a damn. i would have thought that education in matters such as subject and predicate was the job of the school (i thought my job was "try to aim for the bucket next time, sweetie"), but i would apparently have been wrong, and i am not willing to fill the gap, but i can see the kid is getting lost. hence: tutor.
*ha

Friar Tuck and i had a bit of disagreement about it, because getting someone to drill Squire Tuck on the difference between a noun and a verb, however creatively and professionally they do so, does not solve the fact that Squire Tuck couldn't care less which is which. i think it's worth trying anyway. i don't know, but i bet i'll turn out to be right. i usually am.

to his credit, despite his inability to tell a maple leaf from an oak leaf, Squire Tuck can run for 20 minutes solid AND he knows what november 17th was about.

yesterday we watched amadeus and then we watched the hurra torpedo video. it was a musical mashup of ginormous proportions! and i think: all parents want their children to be happy. i can be constantly disappointed that he doesn't use his intelligence for the greatest possible profit to himself and others, whether or not he's happy, or i can stand in the front row and cheer while he slams the refrigerator door down with percussive humor with his pants falling off him, as long as he's happy. and i think it's clear that i'm a parent who is going to fully applaud kitchen appliance 80s cover bands. but i also think i should get him a tutor in case he decides to write an opera. so to speak. in whatever form it takes.