One of my greatest fears has been realized, something that I dreaded since the trauma of Peter's heart condition began to fade into its familiar numbness: Kids can be mean.
Peter came home from school the other day, and, after crawling into his mother's lap, talked to her about his experience thus far in kindergarten. He explained that, yet again, he had not had any friends to play with during recess. In fact, on the whole, he doesn't feel that he has friends in his class at all.
"It didn't work, Mommy," he said.
"What didn't work, Peter?" she asked.
"Being nice. You said that being nice will make other kids be nice to me and that's how I get friends. But it didn't work."
Then he started to cry.
Hearing this story stabs me right to my heart. It could be, as Hamlet says, by "thinking too precisely on the event", and thus this is an overwrought analysis, but I can't help but wonder if the things we did to preserve Peter's life also impeded his ability to live.
When Peter was young, we lived hermetically. Never did we go to a church building with him in tow; trips to the grocery store were done without him, or, on very rare occasions, with him covered and the shopping brief; visitors were only permitted if they were well, and any with a sickness we simply asked not to come over. In short, we physically sheltered our heart baby from every hardship that we could, knowing that he would have plenty of opportunities to struggle for his life anyway.
I believe that our precautions were worthwhile, recognizing that there's no way of knowing how efficacious our choices were. They did not come without sacrifice--we no longer attend family gatherings when we know those who have not been vaccinated will likewise be in attendance--and the difficulties of juggling all of our responsibilities in order to preserve Peter's health were many.
One of the consequences of sequestration included a decrease in social experience. Peter has yet to have a friend over to play in his room. He has, perhaps, twice knocked on the door of a neighbor boy to ask if he could play. He does play outside with neighbors, but he hasn't been over to their houses, either. Preschool went well enough, but with a total of maybe four hours a week, it didn't really provide the constant social interactions that he needed. Now he's in kindergarten and, despite being able to read, understand basic mathematical concepts, and a firm grip on science, he is struggling to work well with others.
I imagine there are manifold reasons for this, rather than the fact that we didn't go out and expose him to lots of people and nursery in church and all of the other things that we forewent in order to protect his health. I don't think that I would change our choices, either. But it does hurt to hear those words from Peter.
Part of what strikes me so deeply about this is that I've been catching glimpses of Pete on my laptop. The desktop image changes every five minutes or so, plucking pictures from the hard drive that I didn't know I still had. This has reminded me of how fortunate we are to have him, how glad I am he's here, and how much we went through to get him. From outside, Peter is not only healthy but bright and happy. No child with such a big and caring heart could possibly be born with only half of his organ.
And none of his classmates see that--nor would they be able to understand it, if they could. Peter is one of the friendliest people I've met, with a penchant for waving, smiling, hugging, and (a little too often) kissing people. He is still learning the limits of where it's appropriate to be in terms of personal space, but he's rarely malicious. He is, of course, rather bossy (as most first children with younger siblings are, I'd wager) and he has a strong sense of what he likes and what he wants to do. It is perhaps that aspect of his personality that is giving him the difficulty. Whatever the case is, Peter is struggling to make friends and I have to wonder if I am partly to blame.
Maybe all parents feel this way. Maybe not. But I do know that's how I feel, especially as I watch these formative years snap into focus. Putting Peter in school was a natural choice--what with both of our career choices being in public education--but letting Peter be in school and learn all that he can from the experience is, in some ways, the hardest thing that I've had to do with him. The same feeling of helplessness that I had upon seeing him enshrouded with cables and the post-surgery agony on his face comes to the fore as I see his little expression crumple with disappointment and frustration as he puzzles through the beginning stages of social life.
I remember enjoying kindergarten--but I also found a fast friend who helped anchor me through much of elementary school. I also remember having some fairly serious frustration and depression during my pre-teen years, and I fear that my son may have to go through something similar.
And that gives me a gnawing terror that is all too familiar. O, for a world where teaching a child that being nice to other people is a good thing to do--O, for a world where teaching that very thing didn't make you feel like a liar.
Peter came home from school the other day, and, after crawling into his mother's lap, talked to her about his experience thus far in kindergarten. He explained that, yet again, he had not had any friends to play with during recess. In fact, on the whole, he doesn't feel that he has friends in his class at all.
"It didn't work, Mommy," he said.
"What didn't work, Peter?" she asked.
"Being nice. You said that being nice will make other kids be nice to me and that's how I get friends. But it didn't work."
Then he started to cry.
Hearing this story stabs me right to my heart. It could be, as Hamlet says, by "thinking too precisely on the event", and thus this is an overwrought analysis, but I can't help but wonder if the things we did to preserve Peter's life also impeded his ability to live.
When Peter was young, we lived hermetically. Never did we go to a church building with him in tow; trips to the grocery store were done without him, or, on very rare occasions, with him covered and the shopping brief; visitors were only permitted if they were well, and any with a sickness we simply asked not to come over. In short, we physically sheltered our heart baby from every hardship that we could, knowing that he would have plenty of opportunities to struggle for his life anyway.
I believe that our precautions were worthwhile, recognizing that there's no way of knowing how efficacious our choices were. They did not come without sacrifice--we no longer attend family gatherings when we know those who have not been vaccinated will likewise be in attendance--and the difficulties of juggling all of our responsibilities in order to preserve Peter's health were many.
One of the consequences of sequestration included a decrease in social experience. Peter has yet to have a friend over to play in his room. He has, perhaps, twice knocked on the door of a neighbor boy to ask if he could play. He does play outside with neighbors, but he hasn't been over to their houses, either. Preschool went well enough, but with a total of maybe four hours a week, it didn't really provide the constant social interactions that he needed. Now he's in kindergarten and, despite being able to read, understand basic mathematical concepts, and a firm grip on science, he is struggling to work well with others.
I imagine there are manifold reasons for this, rather than the fact that we didn't go out and expose him to lots of people and nursery in church and all of the other things that we forewent in order to protect his health. I don't think that I would change our choices, either. But it does hurt to hear those words from Peter.
Part of what strikes me so deeply about this is that I've been catching glimpses of Pete on my laptop. The desktop image changes every five minutes or so, plucking pictures from the hard drive that I didn't know I still had. This has reminded me of how fortunate we are to have him, how glad I am he's here, and how much we went through to get him. From outside, Peter is not only healthy but bright and happy. No child with such a big and caring heart could possibly be born with only half of his organ.
And none of his classmates see that--nor would they be able to understand it, if they could. Peter is one of the friendliest people I've met, with a penchant for waving, smiling, hugging, and (a little too often) kissing people. He is still learning the limits of where it's appropriate to be in terms of personal space, but he's rarely malicious. He is, of course, rather bossy (as most first children with younger siblings are, I'd wager) and he has a strong sense of what he likes and what he wants to do. It is perhaps that aspect of his personality that is giving him the difficulty. Whatever the case is, Peter is struggling to make friends and I have to wonder if I am partly to blame.
Maybe all parents feel this way. Maybe not. But I do know that's how I feel, especially as I watch these formative years snap into focus. Putting Peter in school was a natural choice--what with both of our career choices being in public education--but letting Peter be in school and learn all that he can from the experience is, in some ways, the hardest thing that I've had to do with him. The same feeling of helplessness that I had upon seeing him enshrouded with cables and the post-surgery agony on his face comes to the fore as I see his little expression crumple with disappointment and frustration as he puzzles through the beginning stages of social life.
I remember enjoying kindergarten--but I also found a fast friend who helped anchor me through much of elementary school. I also remember having some fairly serious frustration and depression during my pre-teen years, and I fear that my son may have to go through something similar.
And that gives me a gnawing terror that is all too familiar. O, for a world where teaching a child that being nice to other people is a good thing to do--O, for a world where teaching that very thing didn't make you feel like a liar.
Comments
I wonder if his teacher could identify another student who is likewise needing a friend. Perhaps the other student is just shy or Peter is trying with the wrong kids since he wouldn't know how to choose really yet.
And I wish I understood why we live in a world where kids aren't just nice to each other.
I worry about that issue with my nieces and nephew. My brother's first daughter was born with tetralogy of Fallot, So she had multiple open heart surgeries and a pacemaker before she was 3. So, less serious than half a heart, but serious.
Anyway, for understandable reasons (like when the common cold could kill your child) my brother and his wife have also very carefully sequestered their older daughter, and consequently their next two as well. And my sister-in-law is planning on homeschooling them. I really worry (which is pointless since worrying helps nothing and they're not my kids) about how they are going to learn social skills when they barely leave their house and won't attend school. I guess I should just be grateful that they have siblings and aren't only children.