Of late, I have become a body language master, reminiscent of Mr. Miyagi, when it comes to my oldest son’s first grade teacher.  I begin pondering the subsequent interaction as soon as I depart my home, laden with my two younger boys, and walk down to our elementary school.  Running through my reminders at drop off, do your best, listen, no weird noises to make people laugh, respect your teacher, respect others especially since it kindness week, don’t make them ask you more than twice, and of course I love you with all my heart, and I prayed to my maker whoever she may be, Please let him have a good day.

Wheels is not a bad kid.   In fact, I find him to be pretty darn amazing.  He was born a hefty 21 1/2 inches and 9.2 lbs and has grown as an average of 3.5 inches per year since his first birthday. Yes, my first grader comes to the shoulder of this 5’7” gal!  Beyond that, from the beginning he has and is all go; walking at 9 months, running at 10, talking at 11 months and full on sentences at 13 months. He excels at activities with strict rules and boundaries, chess, violin, swimming, and flounders at team sports due to the fun, social interactions. Drawn towards older kids and the activities they played, everyone has always mistaken him as older, yet his maturity level is age appropriate.  However, the older kids could never keep up with his energy.  Wheels can run a Thoroughbred into the ground and hound it to get up and keep going.

Despite his incredible desire to learn (a museum takes us hours, he has to read every plaque), my husband and I decided to postpone kindergarten due to his summer birthday and squirrelly  nature.

For us, great decision.  For in that extra year he had not slowed down but slightly calmed down.  Kindergarten went well. He had a great teacher but she expressed concern with his inability to focus and control spontaneity.

Me too.

He plugged on and finished toward the top in reading and writing and surpassing in creativity, math and personality.

Fantastic!

*sigh* First grade.  How thou hath be a challenge.

Controlling oneself, no.  Listening to the teacher, yes after four reminders. Explodes into gym and runs mad, yes. Kind to others, yes.  Trouble completing writing assignments, yes.  Trouble completing math, no. Using his energy at inopportune times to be funny, yes. Inability to tell our friends no,  we all have had trouble with that at some point.

But nothing too bad really.  All work done, learning, participating. Right?

I turned the corner and let my other two animals loose on the playground and wait.  Standing nervously at the door, I try to sneak a peak through the tinted windows.  His teacher is awesome, but entirely too easy to read, she could never teacher high school!

I run through her wave series: (1)medium pace, fingers extended palm facing out, long stroke  = Happy, (2)slow pace, hand curled palm up, slightly choppy stroke = Good but tired, and (3) fast erratic pace and stroke palm half way facing the ground, head down = ugh bad.

I hold my breath as the designated 5th grader announces in her best hostess whine “Kindergarten and first grade walkers are now dis – miiIIISSED”.

The door flies open and I find his teacher. She comes out, waves and chill runs down my body.  It’s a new one: #4, holding Wheels’ hand with one hand, her free hand takes one swipe across the air, fast, close to her shoulder as if to say “screw it”. And the worst part, her eyes are locked with mine the whole time. Great.

I quickly scan where my other two are, one being a ninja warrior, the other trying to figure out how to climb up and down the curb. Nothing too deadly so I walked to Wheels and his teacher.

The rest is a blur, snippets of  Tell your mom, you were honest with me tell her.  Him refusing as he gazes into my crazed eyes, she proceeds with a menagerie of lied at lunch to use restroom, he and a friend, jumping off walls, swinging on doors, I feel my facial muscles contract pulling into my mom wrinkles, my eyes becoming like a wolves, following each other in stalls, clothes on,  WTF repeats in my mind, being silly, great kid, not making good friend decisions, not making good learning decisions, here to help but he has to help too. 

I voice my full support for the teacher. Reiterate the steps we are taking at home.  This will be addressed. Again, she expressed her affection for him and his sponge like desire to learn, but this new destructive behavior has to stop.

He got on his bike, and I said with an accusatory point “We will talk about this is an hour for I will loose it on you right now.” Yes, Mom.

In fact, I took four.

I waited for my back up support; my English husband’s calm, see all side to find a solution and move on, proper demeanor truly balances out my fear mongering, gangster Kentucky hick, straightforwardness.  Wheels recounted the story and I watched for my husband’s reaction.

Eyes closed head shaking, pierced lips as though preparing a kiss, my husband retorted, in a loud tone “WHAT?!” and went silent. That was it, Wheels blew Britian’s school etiquette mind. It was hard not to snicker.

Recovering, I laid out the privacy norms of the bathroom and how those are not new concepts, the severity and implications of following someone into a stall, adults go to jail for that and you could be kicked out of school, do we let you try to run on our walls?, I don’t care what your friend does, you are in control of your decisions and actions, you will face the consequences alone.

My heart went out to him. He was pale and tearing.  Truly upset at his new found responsibility and knowledge that actions can be interpreted in more than one way.

It was this moment that he inquired, “But how can going into a stall be seen as harmful?”

I calmly replied, “People expose their privates in stalls to use the restroom, it can be seen as pedophilia or attempted molestation.”

Blankness on his face told me I had crossed the great barrier of language proficiency, and his being too young could not keep up. I hung my head to gather how else to infer the seriousness.

My husband, who had remained mostly quiet grabbed him by the shoulders, spun him around and without blinking said, “Bad people follow kids into restrooms sometimes and touch their privates or hurt them.  You do not want your actions, no matter what you meant, to be seen this way.”

Long live the King!

Wheels shrunk in size as he finally understood the true impact of his actions.  That he could actually get in trouble, big trouble.

We left it there, reminding him to expect a consequence for the upcoming weekend.

As parents, that is all we can do.  Provide them with honesty, try to teach them cause and effect, and hope upon hope they can control themselves enough to make the right decisions.

I hated growing up.  It sucked.  But as a parent, I hate watching it more.