Gaining perspective

Earlier this week I was ready to throttle a couple of teachers.

Normally, I'm a very supportive mom. As a teacher, the wife of a former teacher, and a person with a generally high level of respect and awe for educators in general, I tend to give these harrowed, overworked and underpaid professionals the benefit of the doubt. I strive to make their lives easier by staying on top of my kid's work and by not complaining too frequently. In this, I'm usually pretty good.

But this week I had enough!

Two weeks ago it was the Israel fair. We never received an assignment sheet with clear instructions. We had to rely on our eight year old children to communicate the parameters of a project with both a written component and a model. Needless to say, I never got the memo. Fortunately, it was a group project, and even more fortunately, one of the group members had a clue.

The Chicago fair followed soon after. This came with extensive written guidelines. We were to visit our assigned site (Museum of Science and Industry - $14 parking, $11 entry with reciprocal museum membership), our child was to write a report detailing the location, date of completion, architect, and interesting features of our building, and then the child was required to build a model ($40 in Styrofoam, glue, and small dowels).

Sometime that week I was also informed that the children would be putting on a Purim carnival for special needs children. This was yet another group project (thank goodness!). "Oh, and by the way," my son interjected the day before the carnival, "I need to bring a mishloach manot basket," a gift basket of different kinds of foods traditionally given on Purim, "for my Keshet kid."

The museum project was due Monday, the carnival was Tuesday. My mom was set to arrive Monday night.

That week I accosted friends, administrators, and even my sister - anyone who would listen to me vent about expenses and time and stress. I was saving up my sharpest remarks for the teachers who dumped it on us all at once. Teacher conferences were Wednesday. I licked my chops in wicked anticipation.

"Don't stress about the carnival." my wise Skokie Sistah advised me, after I let loose my rant. "We don't have to meet. We'll just divide up the tasks. I'll pick up the prizes and you can make the game. It'll be easy!" That calmed me down, slightly. It was still a lot to do in a short amount of time.

After piano lessons and swimming on Sunday morning, I dropped off the diva and took my son to grab some pizza. A fifteen minute break turned into a nice, long leisurely lunch hour, but the museum, 45 minutes away, closed in three hours! Panic was bubbling directly below the surface.

We finished up our lunch and zoomed across town. I shelled out the big bucks and we flew through as many exhibits as we could in the limited amount of time we had. My son was wide-eyed and enraptured by everything he saw. Frankly, I was, too. The giant model trains, the energy exhibit, the model toy factory, and his favorite from our first visit last year, the Swiss kinetic sculpture, had my boy mesmerized.

We reluctantly left and headed for the crafts store where we loaded up on our supplies, then headed home to whip together an adequate facsimile of the beautiful, but complicated structure.

We did okay!

On Monday, I threw together a bright and tasty mishloach manot basket for one of the Keshet kids, and cleaned my house for mom's visit, between carpools and ballet classes. That evening we had the school's Chicago Fair, a third grade tradition, where we were treated to a tour of Chicago architecture as envisioned by a bunch of bright eight and nine year olds. It was beyond adorable, but I was still miffed at the amount of labor-intensive work the school had piled on my son, and by extension, me.

"So, you know the kids switched around their assignments, right?" My friend asked me, referring to the carnival game the kids were supposed to bring. What?! I snarled, thinking about the little red tin heart boxes and tie-dye pattered foam board I had purchased for the game the day before. "Oh, our boys decided yesterday that we would make the game and you would get the prizes, but don't worry!" She interjected quickly, seeing the steam coming out of my ears, "I'll go ahead and get the prizes. It's not a big deal."

The Chicago fair was amazing, and reluctantly, I admitted to being impressed with the children's ingenuity. Still, it was a lot of things thrown at us at one time. My time would come to voice my displeasure.

That night, my mom arrived, the kids were ecstatic, my doll got a new baby, and immediately, stress lifted.

The next morning, my mom and I drove the carpool, dropped off the baby, and rushed back to the school to help the kindergartners make hamantashen, the traditional Purim jelly cookies. Admittedly, much of the stress in my life comes from my inability to say no. But it was a great opportunity to spend time with my daughter, and let my mom see her in action.

Needless to say, we had a great time mixing the ingredients, flattening out the cookies, folding them into jelly-filled triangles, and interacting with adorable little kiddos. My mom was positively glowing.

But that was nothing compared to the wonderful surprise that followed. I hadn't realized the carnival would be happening right after we made hamantashen with the kindergartners. My son was in costume, grinning from ear-to-ear, posted by his carnival game.

He was anxiously awaiting the arrival of the children with various types and levels of disabilities to come and partake in the festivities he and his classmates had prepared. My sweet, sensitive son had planned a shell game with blocks in each of the tins, so that each child would earn a prize, no matter which tin he picked! I marvelled at his goodness and ingenuity.

My mom and I watched as my son and his friends greeted the Keshet kids with big smiles and excitement.

They played games, did projects together,

sang and danced, and ate lunch together. My son had a great time. While the teachers marvelled about how it was a growing experience that would touch our children and give them a greater sense of maturity and sensitivity, to my son, it was just a chance to make a new friend.

The next evening, my husband and I went to teachers conferences. I was grudgingly willing to admit that the projects were amazing, the learning opportunities tremendous, and the challenges manageable, but I never got to express my consternation and joy.

Each conference began the same way: "Is your child happy?"

Time after time, my children's teachers told me how bright, and sweet, and smart, and sensitive my children were. "Your son was so sad after the carnival," one teacher explained. "He was worried that he'd never see his new friend again."

"He's so creative!" they gushed. "He always has a unique perspective!" they admired. "But is he happy?" they wondered. "Does he have friends?"

"Your daughter gets concepts immediately" her teacher noted, "but she often plays alone."

"Is she happy?"

I don't know. I think so. My kids come home happy. I ask them, How was your day? "Great!" they tell me, "Best ever!"

But when they're tired, frustrated, feeling vulnerable, the sadness and loneliness pour out. "Nobody likes me." They say. I know it's not entirely true. They've made wonderful friends, but it hasn't been easy fitting in. It's a different world with different rules, and they haven't figured it all out yet.

I have spent an inordinate amount of time sweating the homework not turned in, the projects piled on, the lack of communication with the teachers. In doing so, I have almost missed the important thing: my children's happiness.

I have a hard time finding fault with teachers. My children have been especially fortunate in that they have been blessed with sensitive, smart teachers who really seem to get it. The homework not turned in, the haphazard projects; what's that next to an unhappy child? The friends, the learning challenges that fire up the imagination, the opportunities to help another child celebrate with joy, these are the priceless lessons only a harrowed, overworked, and underpaid professional can truly bring to life.