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FROM STEINER TO STARCRAFT- Enduring the nightmare of raising a late reader
A friend brought this issue up to me again. The reading issue. Why is my child not reading? Well, lets face it, the way we usually hear it is "Shame on you! Why cant your child read?" Although it is always asked gently and with honest concern. Linda had a son who read at three or something amazing like that. And as a strong advocate of public schools Im sure she must have wondered on occasion what I was doing wrong as a homeschooler that was depriving my child of the ability to decode. She never brought it up and I never shared my anxiety with her for fear that she might sigh or otherwise indicate latent disapproval. My best friend who had been my main support through all my challenges and traumas over the years and I could not tell her about the criticism I was enduring and how painful that was. My son was still not reading at six, then seven. Then eight. I was beginning to think my critics might be right. But as uneasy as I was about what I SHOULD BE DOING, as anxious I was when someone pointed out my parental deficiency, deep down inside I really wasnt sure this was a problem.
Id actually been enjoying Grahams illiteracy. He was playing and enjoying his life out in the woods where we lived. I didnt see a reason he needed to be pressured to spend a certain number of hours per day decoding. I read to him every night for two or three hours. We made up stories and plays. I taught a drama and arts class he was a part of.
I was using Waldorf methods, whole body, integrated activities to help him see, recognize and write letters. It wasnt working, but it was fun. I had a great deal of confidence in Waldorf, until my son was nine and still not reading. Again I didnt feel he was missing anything. He seemed to be doing what he was supposed to be doing, but I questioned myself. Was I doing what a mother--particularly a homeschooling mother--was supposed to be doing? Damn that ol "supposed to be!" A "proper mother" would force him to do more elaborate mainstream lessons. Take him to a tutor. Put him in the public school so he could get Special Education. I broke down and ordered a few phonics lessons. They brought him to tears. So I only subjected him to them in small doses. Once a week. Five minutes max. No progress of course.
I never trusted myself much as a parent--even after raising two to adulthood, but I had always trusted my children. Their well-being or problems always seemed like the best guide for my parenting. I guess I was always a child-led learning type. And with Graham less structured schooling was what he seemed to need. So I continued on down the path that friends, family and people behind me in the DMV line saw as utter folly.
At age nine he could barely sound out one-syllable words. By that time I had stumbled upon Dr. Moores idea of "better late than early" and had a small inkling that I might not be sentencing my son to life on Skid Row by not pressuring him to do more than he seemed capable of. But the criticism from friends often seemed much more powerful than one lunatic fringe doctors opinion.
Then I took my pedagogical leap from Steiner to StarCraft. Unconsciously of course. My ex-husband, a computer analyst, wanted to buy Graham a computer. Having struggled to keep Graham as media-free as possible for nine years I felt some resistance to the idea, but I also felt Graham was old enough. He would probably love a computer. We got him his first game. Starcraft. He sat down at the keyboard and I sat nearby and read him the first few pages of instructions and then had to get back to the book I was wrapped up in writing. By the end of the week, he had read the entire 58 page small print instruction manual. Wow! Amazing what happens when motivation and maturation come together! Anyway I like to tell that story because I think so many women are struggling with their feelings of concern that one of their children is not "where he is supposed to be" intellectually, academically, emotionally, socially, physically, athletically whatever. But the bigger concern is "What am I doing wrong?" That nebulous angst of wondering if there is something else/more/less/different that we are supposed to be doing, but we find ourselves resisting. I say trust your resistance. It may be telling you something. Not that my choice is "right." For some people resisting homeschooling is "right." Resisting Waldorf is "right." Resisting what your best friend is doing that looks so successful for her child is "right." I am just talking about resisting that which looks like the "correct way all must conform to" but what does not really fit you. Im talking about trying to find that tiny voice that really does speak from your own deepest truth, however unorthodox or too orthodox it might seem. Its a hard vice to hear beneath all the external and internal criticism that always sounds like its coming through a bullhornSURVIVING OBSESSIVE GIVING DISORDER:
YOUR HOLIDAY TO-DON'T LIST
The gods don’t ask for human sacrifice anymore, do they? Then why do millions of women turn themselves into burnt offerings each winter?
It hits about mid-November: Obsessive Giving Disorder. Turning ordinary women into Nurturing Ninjas. Hopped-up on hospitality hormones, they launch into a frenzy of baking, shopping, decorating, crocheting, hosting, serving, costuming, shopping, wrapping, preserving and worshipping madly at the altar of Toxic Traditions. It becomes a Superbowl of Martyrdom when every shred of selfhood disappears into the Bermuda Triangle of Holiday Obligation.
Is there a cure?
Not yet. Whatever drives this compulsion--whether it’s ancestral memories of hoarding for winter, internalized domestic programming or the ultimate holiday horror: the fear of disappointing someone--Oh my god, the pony didn’t make her eyes light up! --OGD has to run its course. A chemical, seasonal, cultural imbalance, in December it becomes the alpha motivator: The Big Dogma. BE ALL THINGS TO ALL PEOPLE it commands.
SO YOU’RE SINKING IN HOLIDAY DOGMA-DOO.
“Well, maybe if I just get organized,” you say. “Put my to-do list in order.”
Careful--that’s the disease talking.
The Holiday To-Do list has a life of its own. It grows faster than a B-Movie mutation. Forget trying to contain it. A need-meeter’s brain is a warm moist incubator for this fungus.
The only hope of surviving the Curse of Caring Too Much is to leave the monster alone and attack the lesser demons: the Beta stressors--those second-string compulsions.
You can start by turning your imagination around.
USING YOUR WHAT-IFS FOR GOOD
INSTEAD OF EVIL
We’re great at imagining the family unit will go supernova if we don’t live up to our over-doing reputations. In retrospect it’s always obvious: holidays never meet everyone’s expectations. And does it matter? Are lives lost?
Imagination can be an ally when we ask:
Would the world come to an end if I made potatoes from a box?
Would the dinner table turn into Lord of the Flies if I didn’t sculpt every family pet out of marzipan this year?
Would Charlie end up in therapy for abandonment issues if I didn't crochet his name onto that videogame cozy?
Congratulate yourself every time you let go of omnipotence.
But when you’re up against Toxic Traditions, you’ll need more in your arsenal than just what-ifs.
Dogma-doers must minimize their exposure to the needs of others.
PINK LIES
Remember Little White Lies? They spare the feelings of others. Pink lies spare your own as well!
Need-meeters are obligation magnets. They cannot screen out the pleading eyes or the passive-aggressive demands. Excuses that buy you a little time out are crucial because absence is an anal accommodator’s only defense.
There are three basic categories of Pink Lies:
Why you have to leave early.
Why you have to come late.
Why you have to leave in the middle.
EXAMPLES:
THE MEDICAL STAND-BY: I have: (pick one: allergies, female troubles, New Guinea Flu or if necessary: “some kind of oozing pussy rash”)
THE BIG GUNS: “I have to go in for a pre-surgical consultation and I won’t be able to fly out that day.”
THE POOR ME: “I made two huge pots of my favorite ginger Sherry pumpkin soup and then I set it on top of my car and drove off. Maybe next year.”
THE I’LL BE RIGHT BACK: “I forgot to get the sour cream—No, it’s a special l kind and I am the only one who knows where to find it.” When you return after three blissful hours, bravely recount your wretched Odyssey to twenty-six 7-11’s.
THE NOT MY FAULT: My husband decided to go find his birth mother, we’re leaving for the Philippines tonight. (Always use someone else as your excuse whenever possible.)
From the banal to the sublime, migraines to court-ordered community service, the Pink Lie buys you a little separation from your demanding fans. But don’t forget you need to stay one step ahead of your internal Perfection Police.
SETTING YOURSELF UP FOR FAILURE: SWEET BLESSED FAILURE
It’s important to set yourself up for failure. Yes, for failure.
For falling short of your massive potential. Not an easy task for an OGD. You must plan carefully and remain vigilant.
MAKING YOUR TO-DON’T LIST
An anal accommodator is incapable of limiting the guest list to three digits or stopping at sixteen sets of meringue crèche figures. She cannot spend less, do less, coddle less, say yes less. So she must look for something that she can eliminate. Naturally, it will be a non-holiday related task since the whole Yule area of the brain has been taken over by MARTIAL LAW.
Ask yourself: Where can I economize my energy?
If you were devoting extra hours to anther kind of winter disaster like clearing mudslides, housing the homeless, you would probably lighten up on routine domestic chores at home. Cut yourself the same slack.
Try out this delicious TO-DON’T LIST SAMPLER
Don’t change clothes for three days.
Don’t cook anything but microwave food on Fridays and Tuesdays.
Don’t help your son with homework on Mondays.
Don’t clean the refrigerator.
Don't volunteer cupcakes.
Don’t change the sheets till New Year’s.
Be sure and WRITE DOWN your To-Don’t List
And when you have not done them, check them off proudly! You stole back a little time.
That’s a rare achievement for a compulsive Dogma-Doer—truly something to celebrate!
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Joan Bechtel @2005 All Rights Reserved
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