I've been reflecting on the drastic differences between children in the same family--same two parents, same upbringing, same gender, nothing in common.
How does this happen?
Jamey brought Jude (age 4) to work with him again on Friday, where he sat sweetly and silently for hours with nothing but some books and a few matchbox cars to entertain him. Jamey took him to a meeting and people were marveling at this tiny boy who could sit so still for so long, quietly sucking the thumb of one hand, turning pages with the other, occasionally smiling up shyly from behind his long, dark lashes.
I would love to take full credit for creating this masterpiece of (publicly) obedient boyhood. But I am also the mother of Isaiah, age 6, who has no brain/body connection most of the time and is prone to making startling and inappropriate comments in public places. Every Friday I sit with him in our homeschool Classical Conversations group and pray that he will make it through class without a major incident.
Usually, he commits minor infractions interspersed with mid-level distractions. One recent example was when he pulled the back of his shirt over the back of his chair, stretched the front of his shirt down over his knees, and then attempted to stand up. (Can't be done. Don't try it.)
He also likes to swing his head down between his knees and look at the children in the row behind him from under his chair. Sometimes he takes his shoes off and puts them on his hands. He falls off his chair at least once a week, usually more. He has shared the fact that he uses his siblings' toothbrushes sometimes, that he once threw up in the shower, and that his dad runs over frogs in the driveway "on purpose". ( Not true, by the way. Frogs are dumb and it is impossible not to squish them pretty regularly in the summer.)
His crowning moment this year occurred two weeks ago during Latin review, when he announced to the class (with an expression of complete incredulity) that he had forgotten to wear underwear that day. Such honesty! Such transparency! Such a lack of awareness of impropriety!
As usual, I blushed for him, apologized, and helped his tutor regain control of the classroom.
Yesterday was grandparents' day at the co-op. I sat right next to Isaiah in a very uncomfortable, toddler sized chair, ready to pin his arms to his side or even clap my hand over his mouth if necessary. I made sure that he was sitting by the sweetest, quietest, most docile girl in the class, thinking she might have a calming influence on him.
It seemed like a good plan.
Little Lexi was the picture of serenity--a tiny elf in a pink dress with a pink flower tucked behind her ear, dutifully repeating her memory work. Isaiah stared at her thoughtfully for a while and then, in a moment of silence, he blared, "Did you know that you have a flower growing out of the side of your head?"
Poor child. Every head looked her way, causing her to scrunch down in her chair and turn the same shade of pink as her dress. The various visiting Grandparents turned a stern eye on me, I began hissing, "Say you're sorry! That was NOT kind!" to Isaiah, and my mom began choking with laughter in the back row.
At least she got some entertainment out of it. Hopefully I won't get a bill for Lexi's therapy.
So after that, I moved Isaiah and myself to a new location at the back of the class. He did well there until we started on timeline cards, when he surreptitiously threaded the elastic waistband tightener on his jeans through a loop on the blouse of the girl next to him, and then buttoned her shirt to his pants. I didn't even notice until she tried to stand up and almost tore off her sleeve. Yet another golden moment in his career.
The silver lining is that I have become a lot less prideful about my parenting skills over the past six years than I used to be, and more tolerant of the parenting of others. For every one of Isaiah's challenges, he has a beautiful strength, and of course, I absolutely adore him. Someday--maybe in college-- I like to think he will sit through a class and not make popping noises with his lips. He will keep his hands to himself and he will NOT stuff his pencil into the mouthpiece of his tin whistle and break it off.
That hope is what keeps me from crying in C.C. every Friday.
