Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
When my Boy was born he didn’t excell at anything except being beautiful. I wasn’t the only person who thought that he was beautiful–there was a woman at a grocery store who came up to me and told me that it looked like I was holding a doll because he was so beauiful. But other than his looks he wasn’t one to try to hard at anything. He waited until the last possible moment to master skills in order to not be labeled delayed. He was just really good at laying there and looking beautiful.
Things changed right around age 4 when he started a Pre-K program at a Montessori school. Suddenly he was the kid that motivated other kids. Every other kid wanted to read just like him and undertake projects with him (he and another student finger loomed these little pieces of material to make some long thing that probably could stretch half of a football field just so they could measure it). He was writing letters to his little sister. He loved doing math games. He was making eleborate groupings of words with the moveable alphabet (it’s a Montessori thing) until he made a crossword puzzle type thing begining with the word supercalifragilisticexpialidocious (spelled phonetically, but still!). Other students wanted to be like him and there were parents who looked at him while their kid was rolling around on the floor and picking lint out of body crevices. I could tell parents were impressed. And it made me proud. And it made me obnoxious.
Not only was the Boy excelling academically he had game. We first put him in soccer, but it was basketball that he really loved. One of my all time favorite memories ever in the world was a weekend at a nearby school yard when the Boy was not even in school yet. We were letting him play on the play ground equipment and taking advantage of the open sky with a kite that wouldn’t make it far before tangling in a tree or eletric line if we stayed at home. When we were leaving we walked by a group of Big Boys (can’t remember the age, but probably middle school) playing some basketball. My Boy walked up and just asked if he could shoot. The really nice Big Boys said sure like they were gonna throw this little kid a bone and then move on with their day. Well, my Boy sunk it. And then walked away. It was beautiful. You could tell the Big Boys were very impressed with this runt who came in and "swish" put the ball right where it was supposed to go. The best part was that he just wanted that one try and he looked so cool walking off after. It was another proud mom moment. Another accelorator towards obnoxious on my part for sure.
As the Boy got older he stopped soccer and alternated between coach pitch baseball and basketball. I wanted him to fall in love with and be great at baseball. That’s my favorite sport and I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that my one goal in life is to have a son that plays major league ball (there I said it!). But still, it was basketball that the Boy loved and was great at. He could dribble with both hands. Shoot with both hands. He grew his hair long because it made him like Steve Nash, his favorite basketball player. He was called a "little Danny Ainge" because of the way he moved on the court.
Then he was sick. That’s what we call it. Someone asked once what we call what happened because she knew others who named big events in their lives and so she asked. Things are either "before the Boy was sick, "when the Boy got sick," or "after the "Boy became sick." That’s how we track time. And I’m sure most of you know what I mean when I say it, but on the chance that there is someone reading this that doesn’t I will say what "sick" means. Sick was when there were lots of seizures, a hospitalization, a brain tumor, a brain surgery, more hospitalization, and to this day still occasional seizures. And my Boy now mostly resembles who he was "before he was sick," but not entirely. He didn’t die, even though I thought he might, but there are still times I know that we do mourn the "before sick" Boy. I should just be happy because he’s nearly who he was before. But then something happens like a basketball game.
The Boy still plays regularly on a basketball team made up of kids that he’s played with for years. His teammates hesitate to pass him the ball. And for good reason. He catches the ball and looks scared and passes again really quickly–sometimes to fast to really see who is open. He hardly ever attempts a layup. On the rare occasions that he shoots the ball he misses nearly every time. I talked my husband into us buying a really nice basketball hoop for our driveway so that he could practice more. Alone he does better, but when he’s playing against others he’s timid. Like that? Timid sounds better than he sucks.
Accademically the Boy now seems average. I should be happy, but he used to be supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, remember? He went from being great at nearly everything (he skipped a grade right before the sick thing happened) to being average. And very nearly below average in a few things–according to the standardized testing he did at the end of last school year. And so now, nearly 3 years after "sick" happened I am starting to either stop being dellusional or start facing facts. I’m going to be looking into whether or not my Boy needs an Indivdualized Education Plan (IEP) to help him out in school. Maybe he just needs a little bit more time to take tests. Maybe he needs to learn to type and get him a laptop for writing. Maybe he does have some "cognitive" issues (husband’s words) that I need to just accept. I’m having trouble with acceptance right now. I’m having trouble watching my kid that was so far ahead start falling behind. I wonder which me is more obnoxious? The one that glowed to brightly around others when her kid seemed perfect in every single way? Or the one that can’t be happy with what is and still dwells in the past when supercalifragilisticexpialidocious was the norm?
