A Year

Over the last year, a lot has changed. After enduring the bullshit of the Montessori school, we put our son into the daycare that took care of him up to the age of four. The ladies who run the place told us, "that's not our Jackson, but don't worry, we'll take care of him." Within a few weeks his tantrums and night terrors ended, and he was turning into the kid we knew from before.

Last summer, just as he was getting ready to turn five, we put him in the local summer day camp, run by a company called Kids After Hours (KAH). The stupid, yellow and black clock face mascot is a common enough sight, plastered across many a minivan or sedan throughout Montgomery County. Apparently, they have a thing where if they spot your car with the KAH magnet, they'll post on their Facebook and give your kid a free week of daycare or something. I was skeptical at first, because I am always skeptical of organized... anything... but it turned out to be wonderful.

We would drop the Wolf off at an elementary school gym (that was otherwise unused during the summer) and he would just play all day. Play with toys, with other kids, with the big, inflatable waterslides they rented, whatever he wanted. He came home excited and exhausted. He made friends, he got picked on by budding bullies, and became a favorite of some of the camp counselor people. The Wolf has a way with people.

Something we noticed over the spring and summer was that the Wolf had some mental scars from the Montessori school. He became much more eager to please everyone around him. He just wanted whoever it was to like him and... I don't know. Reassure him somehow? No, that's not it. This manifested whenever he thought he had disappointed you somehow. Any perceived failure turned into fearful eyes, tears, and choking apologies for whatever he thought he had failed at. He would throw himself into your belly and his knees would give out and he'd sob that he was sorry, saying "I'm a good boy" in such a miserable croak. It was clear that whatever happened, he was given a pretty heavy dose of disappointment-shaming at that school, and the effect is that he just wants whoever is criticising him to stop and tell him its okay.

We reassure him and tell him whatever the problem was isn't that big of a deal. We aren't disappointed or mad, we just want to know if HE is okay. We just want him to know it's okay to make a mistake now and then, and we use that as a chance to learn or help in some way. If there's something that's broken, we try to fix it or replace it, that's all. And take a deep breath. That's it. Another one. Okay, now can you help me clean this up?

It got better after he started kindergarten. The Wolf got into a summer program to fast-track kids into regular public school. He basically got an extra six weeks of kindergarten for free, with regular teachers. After a week or so of adjustment, he was flying. When he went into the Montessori school, the Wolf could write his name and spell all kinds of things. When he got out of it, he couldn't read but he could set a table (WTF???). After a few weeks of kindergarten, he was singing songs about multiplication.

The Wolf's confidence grew every week. He started getting the best marks you can get, and was identified as a "role model" for other students. He was excited to talk about what he learned and it was clear he was in good hands. Our local public school is staffed by some of the best-meaning people I've ever met in education, and I've known a bunch.

He started regular kindergarten in September and, while not perfect, has had an excellent time. The Wolf can read at about a second grade level already, and he's pretty good at math and science. He has friends who draw pictures for him. He writes notes to people. He looks forward to going to school every day.

A year later, there are still shadows of the damage. He doesn't plead and hope that he's a "good boy" anymore, I think because he knows we love him and have no doubts that he's a good boy, but sometimes he gets overwhelmed. A few weeks ago, he knocked over a cup of chocolate milk and was so embarrassed he started crying and dry heaving, even though we were calmly asking him to go get some paper towels. He got through it, but it was rough for a few minutes.

Now, he's sitting next to me while I write, learning to play our favorite game, Overwatch, in the training mode. His hands aren't quite big enough to work all the keys at once, but he's moving around the practice area and blowing up robots with a lot of excitement. He wants so desperately to participate in this game that I play, and he keeps telling me "I taught you to play this, right? I'm good at this, I'm good at all the characters!" And so on.

And now, this: