Nubze

When Spencer was five years old, (and six, seven, and eight) he refused to try and learn to ride a bike. I tried to console him, cajole him, and basically attempt to convince him that riding a bike was a good thing. But, he was having none of it and rejected any opportunity to learn to ride.

Normally, this might not be a big deal, but I am an avid cyclist and I wanted desperately for my son to also participate in an activity I loved. Eventually, I gave up and just accepted I would need to continue riding without my son.

Then, one day this year, he stated he wanted to try and learn to ride. I was so ecstatic, that I went and bought a way-too-expensive bike for him. I was also wary that he would give up on it at the first fall.

Well, I guess, giving him space to sort things out for himself was the right action (or lack of action) to take. Without pressure from his dad, he decided bike riding might be something he should try to under take.

After only a couple half-hour sessions, he now can ride on his own. In fact, he is so excited riding his bike, that he ropes me into time trials, obstacle courses, and what not, just so he can continue riding. Be careful what you wish for, I suppose.

Spencer returned from camp this past Thursday. He survived quite well, but he did admit to the occasional pang of homesickness over the three nights. Overall, though, I gathered he had a great time as I listened to him rattle off a litany of activities in which the counselors had engaged the kids.

He told me – with expectation in his tone – that Islandwood has summer camps. I suppose, now, I will have to talk with his mother about fitting another week of camp into the summer schedule already full from programs at the UW and such. The summer calendar already looks like a bad episode of the Amazing Race with all the different locations where Spencer will be attending day camps. At least I have three months until I have to figure it all out.

This morning Spencer left. He went to a three nighter at Islandwood Camp with his fifth grade class.

When I woke up this morning and entered the front room, he was sitting on the sofa holding Winnie-the-Pooh and Piglet as he watched TV. Obviously, he was still worried about going away from his dad for three nights. It was also clear, his missing dinner with his mother on Wednesday night was weighing on him.

When I asked him about the day’s events to come, there were no tears, no hesitation. I was proud of him as he returned his stuffed animals to the resting place on his bed, and then said, “I’m ready.” He sounded like a little man, still fearful about embarking into the unknown, but resolute he was not going to be stopped. I guessed last week’s preparations for this morning had taken hold. I was still not sure, though, if I wanted him to find out he did not really need his dad.

Spencer was not enthusiastic about leaving the apartment. There was not the usual spring in his step as he walked toward the school yard, but he quickly became animated as he ran into several of his school buddies.

The school yard had 90 of Spencer’s classmates clustering about, their luggage in piles on the asphalt as adults loaded the suitcases, backpacks, and sleeping bags into cars and vans. Parents were milling about, too. Most chatted with other parents. Some fussed over their children.

Spencer and I picked up the purple luggage tags, wrote Spencer’s name and classroom on them, and attached them to the suitcase and sleeping bag. The baggage was then loaded into one of the dozen ‘sherpa’ cars that littered the play ground. Parent volunteers were to drive the gear to the camp while the children rode the bus.

Spencer seemed to barely notice me as I hugged him goodbye. As I solemnly walked down the block toward home, I heard the screams and laughter of 10 and 11 year olds behind me.

I recalled the conversations I had with some of the other parents this morning. One father told me that he did not sleep for the three nights his daughter was at camp a few years ago. He said he was not worried about his son going this year, but I was not convinced his sleeplessness would not return. Another parent reminisced with me that five years ago she walked her first grade son to school and had seen the bigger kids getting ready to go to camp. “Time flies,” I said.

And so, this afternoon, when I should be picking up Spencer from school, I sit in an empty apartment typing this blog post. I know he is having a great time, but I have an uneasy feeling as well. What’s a parent to do when his child begins stepping out into the world?

Over the dinner table this past Wednesday night, I watched tears well up in my son’s eyes. Needless to say, I was flummoxed. All I did was ask him if he was excited about going to Camp Islandwood with his fifth grade class this next week.

“I am going to miss my mom,” he said, through a slight sniffle.

I never thought Spencer would be worried about going on a three night camp trip. He has eagerly participated in sleepovers at his friends’ houses, and has spent over two weeks away from his mother when he and I travelled to see his grandparents for Christmas.

“Sleepovers are only one night and I don’t have to share a room with a bunch of other kids I don’t know,” he said. “And, you were with me at grandma and grandpa’s.”

I started thinking about my own childhood experience at camp. I know kids in a group setting can be brutal. The most homesick kid is teased relentlessly by the more brutish. I did not want that to happen to Spencer. But, I knew that my reiteration about all the nights he spent away from home was not going to sooth his anxiety. So what could I do?

Due to my inability to think of a good response, I actually ended up listening to his concerns. He did not know what the rooms would be like. He was worried about the activities they would have throughout the days. Would they have tests? What would the camp teachers be like? And, how would they eat their meals?

All of Spencer’s worries seemed a bit trivial to me. But, I soon realized that he had never been to a group camp without his parents. He had no idea what to expect. He was looking into an experience void, and it scared him.

My hope was that by preparing Spencer to address his fears, he would not become a victim of teasing. My wish was that he will not be one of those needy kids, but he will be self-sufficient and still participate with the other children. I want him to grow as a result of the experience. And, I do not want him to return home only to say he hated camp.

So, we went online and viewed the camp’s website. We talked about specific scenarios he was concerned about and came up with strategies to deal with them. (i.e. don’t take any shit from a bully, stand your ground, use your words) And, since phones are not allowed, instead of calling home if he feels homesick, he will have family pictures as comfort items.

Tonight, as we packed his clothes and toothbrush into his backpack, he seemed more optimistic and less anxious about camp.

Tomorrow morning, my son heads off to camp with 90 other kids. I know he will handle the overnights well and he will have a wonderful time. The question now is this: after the buses full of young campers leave in the morning, how well is Spencer’s worrying father going to cope?

At ten years old, my son still believes in Santa Claus. And, his belief in the fat gift-giver was strengthened this year, by all things, a five dollar cheap tourist snow globe.

This past year, Spencer has been on this kick of collecting snow globes from cities he and his parents have visited: San Francisco, Seattle, Washington DC, etc., etc. This Christmas, we spent a week at his grandparents in Crested Butte, Colorado.

Wanting a snow globe from Crested Butte, we would hit the souvenir shops after skiing, searching for one to add to his collection, but no luck. None of the stores had ‘em. He was disappointed.

Then, on Christmas Eve, while Spencer helped Grandma with her Christmas baking, my dad and I went out for some last minute shopping. We were done and ready to head back to the house, when we pulled in for some gas. Walking into the mini-mart to pay, I saw a dusty display next to the cash register. It had a bevy of touristy trinkets with the town name imprinted on them: shot glasses, coffee cups, and yes, cheesy plastic snow globes.

On Christmas day, Spencer opened the gifts from Santa with abandon. He was excited about the Bionicles, the video games, and the Bakugan. But, the one thing he talked about the most was the Crested Butte snow globe Santa left in his stocking. On the plane flight home, he told me several times how he must be special since Santa had made a snow globe just for him.

I am not a fan of Christmas, with all the rushing and spending. But, to be able to give my son one more year of wonder and belief that he is considered special by some jolly fat man just for being himself…well, I think that was the best five dollars I spent this season.

For a ten year old boy who likes to build things, the annual Brickcon show at Seattle Center, is like heaven. The things those folks build with only Legos are truly astounding. Medieval battle scenes (including castles and dragons), all forms of space vehicles, and even a replica of Pioneer Square with the Smith Tower: all pretty impressive.

The first weekend of October, in an exhibition hall at Seattle Center, fanatical adult hobbyists display their Lego art works to the public. I checked (because Spencer wanted to participate) and found out a display participant needs to be at least 18 years old. No children exhibitors: this is serious stuff.

As we walked through the crowd past the displays, Spencer would frequently stop, stand, and stare with a hunger in his eyes, at the huge space ports, colorful castles, and wild vehicles that rested on the many tables in the exhibition hall. Standing next to him, looking at the forty feet of medieval mayhem, my mouth was probably open in amazement as well.

There were also vendors selling old, new, and of course, Star Wars, Lego sets. Spencer had sixty dollars of birthday money and it was burning a hole in his pocket. As he wandered from vendor to vendor, he was salivating at the options laid before him. Which kit was the coolest to acquire? Star Wars or Secret Agent? Discontinued model or just released? He literally was a child in a candy store.

After a lot of back and forth, his initial choice was a large Star Wars ship for sixty dollars. But, he quickly realized he would have no money left after the purchase, so he continued looking.

Although bored during the half-hour my ten year old had taken just to decide how to blow sixty bucks, I was proud that he weighed the pros and cons for each potential purchase. In the end he spent $30 on a couple of more modest racecar kits. He acquired plenty of Legos with which to play, and still retained a good portion of his cash.

Yep, I was proud of his smart move. Of course, the first thing he asked when we got home was: “Dad, when can we go to the toy store?”

On a Tuesday night in September, I stood in the middle of Meyenbauer Convention Center looking down rows of tables. The scene was one in which I was familiar as I had attended multiple trade shows over my career. Each vendor displayed their colorful banner. Information packets and pens and pencils and tote bags with imprinted logos were organized neatly on the table tops. But, this show was not for technology companies hawking their wares. It was for private schools.

Spencer will start middle school next year. But, if I wanted to find the right school for him, the search begins 12 months earlier. In other words: now. Our search was kicked off with the September Private School Education ‘Fair’ in the convention center.

I looked at the list in my hand. Wrinkled and sweaty, it contained a dozen school names. Spencer’s mother provided it to me. She was out of town on a business trip and wanted to make sure I talk with the schools in which she was interested. I strolled down the aisles, looking for the first school on the list.

Passing a display for a religious school, I overheard a representative proudly proclaim to the person facing him, that they will instill the proper values so her child will be a good student for the glory of God. I am not sure they and I share the same values.

A ‘granola’ school had big pictures on display of smiling children getting in touch with their inner selves. I wondered about the math, science, and writing needed to prepare my son for the rigors of High School and College.

And, the preppy school had an adult wearing a sweater vest with the school’s coat-of-arms embroidered on the breast. The school was also on the list. I decided l will come back later.

I finally came to the table display of the first school on the list. I explained how smart my son is (which I’m sure every parent claims) but also how he was diagnosed with Auditory Processing Disorder (APD). I was curious how the school might address his condition in preparing him for High School. After discussing academics, the conversation turned to the admissions process and, of course, financial aid.

I worked down the list, finding the next school’s table, and drawing a line through the name after each conversation. While I was talking with the fifth or sixth admissions director, I realized something: the whole selection and admission process was eerily similar to… college. At that moment I felt like running, screaming, out of the building.

After an effort to return my breathing to normal, (I’m not sure if I really succeeded as the surge of adrenalin made the rest of the evening like a Salvador Dali experience) I recognized that I was not ready to go through this process. I’m not ready for my son to get older, and be able to go someplace I cannot hover and protect him. I am not ready for him to be faced with the challenges that invariably are on his path out of childhood. I am definitely not ready for him to leave childhood.

I was able to hold it together long enough to finish talking to all the schools on the list. I was impressed with some, and others, not so much.

One of the best conversations I had was with the Director of Admissions at a school for ‘gifted’ children. She understood the issues with APD and answered my questions succinctly. Too bad the school is so far away from where we live.

The least impressive conversation was with the person representing that preppy school. The school itself is considered one of the premier schools in the area, but, I could not understand why. The only person at its table was a parent and she could not answer even one of my questions. Her hair was dyed blond, she had perfectly manicured fingernails, and she wore too much makeup. By wearing the school’s sweater vest, she looked (and acted) just like the stereotypical prep school student/parent whose caricature is so frequently mocked in the movies. It seemed every question I asked elicited the same response: “call the Dean of Admissions at the number on this postcard.” Quite an unsatisfactory response to my query about homework load.

By the time the show was over, I was able to cut the list down to six possible schools. On my drive back, my mind raced as I considered the next phases of this process: open houses, entrance exam, application, references, transcript, and financial aid paperwork. Student visits start in December. “Get me the Dali out of here.”

And this is just the private schools. The Seattle school district not only has several programs that may suit Spencer well, but they are making significant changes for next year, particularly around Middle and High School. I am happy I don’t have to look at all that until February.

Sorry I haven’t posted anything for awhile. Through the ebb and flow of life’s ups and downs, I have been in a down for the past few weeks.

Spencer started school six weeks ago, and as is his M.O., the transition from carefree summer to the effort of schoolwork has been, let’s say, not the easiest. The unfortunate side-effect is the impact it has had on me.

My exertion in prodding and pushing him to complete his homework, which seems to overwhelm him, is draining. He was unhappy. I was unhappy. And, this unhappiness took me to a sort of depression where I didn’t do anything but worry. I extrapolated his anti-homework stance to mean he would be a poor student and never graduate high school, submitting himself to a life of poverty and misery.

Then there was the flu: first hitting him and then me. Now he seems one-hundred percent, but I am still recovering. The worst part is the lack of energy. Each day I am gaining a bit of my vigor back; however, I am not running on all cylinders (as if I ever was?). I wonder how many weeks until I feel back to normal.

After recovering from the flu and spending the subsequent couple of weeks catching-up on his homework , I finally feel he is reaching a point of normalcy. He isn’t moody and moping around the house anymore. He still resists doing some of his assignments, but it is nothing like the first weeks of school with the crying and shouting “I don’t want to.”

As for me, I am still making the climb back. I am looking forward to when my energy (and good mood) return.

Spencer does not get sick very often. But, when he does, I have to wonder why the worst of it always comes on Sunday nights. It seems very inconvenient when the only health facility open is the hospital emergency room.

When his mother and I were still married, I remember spending those long and expensive hours in the ER at Children’s Hospital: two nervous parents, concerned about their baby with his horrible cough, or high temperature, or any other malady that baby Tylenol did not improve. Into toddlerhood and early elementary school age, it seemed at least a couple times a year we would spend four or more hours on a late Sunday night and early Monday morning with our sick child under the harsh fluorescent lights of the hospital while the doctors assessed his health risk. We would usually end up with a prescription and instruction sheet and be sent on our way. Emerging from the hospital as the sun created the dawn, we would head home tired and relieved.

Well, this Sunday, Spencer came down with, what appears to be, the flu. And, true to form, he woke me up around midnight. He said he felt really bad and that his stomach hurt. Before he could finish what else he wanted to say to me, he bolted for the bedroom door.

He was heading towards the bathroom, but to my dismay, he did not make it before puking on my bedroom floor. From the back light of the hall, I saw his silhouette vomit on the carpet in my room. He then jumped over the puddle and finished in the toilet in the bathroom.

Through the sleep induced fog, I cursed Sunday nights. Why, oh why, does he always have to be the most sick on Sunday night.

I could see the tears well up in his eyes when he rejoined me in the hallway. I instructed him to rinse his mouth out and afterwards, walked him back to bed. He quickly returned to sleep.

As I cleaned up the bile soaked chunks of his dinner from the floor, I was thankful we did not need to go the ER. But still, Sunday night? Again?

A few hours later, I awoke due to a poking on my arm. Through unfocused eyes, I saw a sorrowful ten year old crying that his body hurt. He asked for some medicine to make him feel better. Not really awake, I poured the liquid Tylenol, which he drank, and then back to bed he went – out cold the moment his head hit the pillow. As for me, I tossed and turned for what seemed like hours.

I must have eventually fallen asleep, because the sun was shining through my window when I was again awakened by the poking.

“Does your stomach hurt again?” I asked, as the remnants of a dream faded into nothingness.

“No. Can I watch TV?” he asked. I think I said “sure.”

For the rest of Monday, Spencer hardly moved. He only did so when he had to go to the bathroom. Otherwise, he lay in the same prone position, staring blankly at the TV.

I realized I did not clean up the puke on the floor all that well the night before. Using Oxi-clean, I tried to remove the stench and stain from the couple of puddles Spencer left on the carpet. After putting away the cleaning supplies, I discovered, not only did he puke on the carpet near my bedroom door, but somehow he hit my Sandals at the foot of my bed as well. How do you clean vomit off of Teva’s?

Despite the Sunday night trauma, and the Monday morning clean-up, I was never mad at the boy. I sympathized with him and only wanted to help him feel better. The sense of humor of the universe, on the other hand, that’s a different story all together. I am glad Spencer is now on the mend and that we did not have to visit the ER.

Thankful for small miracles, I am.

Ok, it wasn’t as pathetic as I had initially envisioned. Spencer was excited about the banner hanging in the living room pronouncing his birthday greeting. He was also very interested in the mini pile of wrapped gifts I had sitting on the table. Every couple of minutes he asked me if he could open one. I reluctantly told him we needed to wait until his aunt and cousin arrived.

My sister and niece finally arrived after many phone calls requesting directions. Although they have been to my apartment several times, both are somewhat directionally-challenged and the streets on Queen Anne are not always the easiest to navigate, given the multiple dead-ends and one ways.

My sister was tasked with bringing the cake, ice cream, and candles. She carried them into the apartment, but there was something up with the cake or, I should say, crooked with the cake.

Apparently, the zig-zagging of her driving through the multiple turns on Queen Anne to get to the apartment had taken its toll on the stability of the baked good. The top layer had slid off the bottom layer. The plastic cover prevented a worse scenario (can you say carpet) with the cake, but after the removal of the protective cover, it was clear the frosting between top and bottom was not sticky enough for my sister’s high-G turns. The candles she brought were squiggly too, as if to say, it’ll be a crooked celebration.

Spencer did not care. He was just excited that he was having chocolate cake after pepperoni pizza for dinner. What can I say, but it ended up a happy, chocolaty mess of a celebration. All you can do is laugh.

Spencer opened his gifts and was very happy with all of them. But, he especially liked the cash from his aunt and cousin. My earlier melancholy was replaced by a satisfaction that Spencer wasn’t missing anything this birthday. He had a great birthday, regardless of his father’s neurosis.