The gondola

This post was originally published on September 7, 2009.

“One of the important keys in understanding the remarkable smoothness of a Five-year-old is that he has an almost uncanny ability to judge what he can and cannot do… With tremendous accuracy he judges what things are and what are not within his ability, and he tries only what he is sure of.”

-Louise Bates Ames, Your Five-Year-Old

I have been reading my book about 5 year-olds and was struck by this statement.  What a lovely quality, to know yourself and live in this truth.

Normally, I would say that the years of my life have brought me to a place where others might describe me with these same words.  I know myself and live comfortably within my limitations.  As I was reading this statement and thinking about WJ, I found a deep pleasure in knowing that this time in his childhood would be characterized by such peace.  I was thinking about how I would need to be certain to trust him in these coming months as he declared his limitations.  I had noticed already a new bravery in some instances and also his matter-of-fact rationale for passing over an opportunity.

But then we saw the gondolas and I forgot to trust him and, even worse, I forgot to trust myself.

We had set out for one last summer getaway out at a discounted off-season ski resort.  Everything was perfect.  As we batted around ideas for our final morning, sipping hot coffee out in the Adirondack chairs and enjoying the cool morning and the view of the mountain, Dave noticed that the gondola lift was running.  It was carrying mountain bikers up the hill to their treacherous trails.  Dave had read that one could purchase a ticket to ride on the gondola lift.  For fun. 

I know myself.  I know that there is no way such a ride would be fun. Nevertheless, we wandered over to the bottom of the hill to investigate.  I think maybe I thought that we would find it was only for the bikers.  Or maybe that there would be an exorbitant fee that would offend the frugal sensibilities of my Dutch husband.

But I think mostly I was just trying very hard to honor my husband, to respect his ideas for our plans, to participate in one of the things that he finds enjoyable.  There are wonderful benefits reaped from our opposites-attract kind of relationship.  But sometimes it just gets us in trouble.

Looking up the mountain at the gondola cars waggling up and down on the limp wires, I mumbled that I didn’t think I could do that.  And WJ echoed.  No.  Not fun.  Not for us.  But Dave was talking to the operator, who had lifted his eyes begrudgingly from a book, and had taken out his wallet.  Four dollars for all three of us.  What a bargain. Dave was stepping on.

WJ and I followed aboard.  The doors closed.  There were no seats and no window panes.  The floor was a grill and the green whizzed by underneath.  I held on with both hands and Dave lifted WJ up so that he could have a better view.  Dave asked me something, something like, “Isn’t this fun?”

I began to chuckle but it turned immediately into the hysterical laughing of an up-too-late junior high girl at a sleepover.  I couldn’t stop; I gasped for breath; tears streamed down my cheeks.  The laughing lasted only a moment, though.  It quickly changed to outright sobbing.  I called out the name of the Lord, and not in vain, as the gondola car swayed. 

WJ was worried too.  I tried to comfort him.  “We are almost at the top!” I exclaimed with false composure, “When we get to the top we will be halfway finished!” 

“But going down is more scary!” he replied.

As if he had to tell me.

When WJ began to sob too, I pulled myself together.  “Do you think there is a way to walk down?” I asked Dave hopefully.  Maybe, was his reply.  As the gondola slowed into the station at the top of the mountain, Dave called out to the teenagers supervising to learn that we could probably walk down.  Probably was enough.  We stepped off of the ride.

It took forty-five minutes to climb down from the top of the mountain to the valley resort.  It was a steep, rocky fire road, littered and overgrown.  Have I mentioned yet that WJ was wearing Crocs?  It felt like we were searching unprepared through the wilderness for help after abandoning a broken car.  Our hike felt somehow desperate. 

But my feet were on the ground and I became myself again.

Slowly WJ became himself again too.  He spotted a frog and chased it.  Then a moth and a very fuzzy caterpillar.  In one of the happier moments of the walk, he took my hand and said, “I wish I could be like Daddy.  I wish I could like the gondola ride.”

I wish that too. 

Sometimes a five-year-old knows himself and his abilities but, for the love of the one he admires, he pretends as best he can to be someone braver.  It can happen to you when you are thirty-six as well.  Sometimes you can pretend hard enough.  But sometimes you have to walk back down the mountain.

This post is part of Steady Mom’s 30 Minute Blogging Challenge.  If you are a blogger, why don’t you give her Tuesday carnival a try?  It is a great way to get a midweek post up without ignoring your other responsibilities… for more than 30 minutes anyway.  

Update on Monday, September 6, 2010 at 4:17PM by Emily

This is just to say that we have returned again from the same, gondola-ridden Labor Day vacation spot.  This year I did not attempt a ride on the gondola.  WJ, however, did ride with his dad and some friends and enjoyed it very much. TWICE. What a difference a year makes.  

What a difference the absence of your hysterical, sobbing mother makes.

Is it time to conga?

As I sit here with my feet up, there is a party happening in my belly.  And for once it is not the result of my indulging in some decadent recipe found during my daily trolling of the food blogs.

I am very pleased to announce, to those of you who have not yet heard our good news, that our family is waiting.  We are waiting for a lot of things.  We are waiting still for kindergarten.  6 more days, six-year-old WJ will proudly tell you if you ask.  We are waiting for our annual family Labor Day weekend getaway.  All of us look forward to a day at the pool.  We are waiting to soundly have an understanding of what it means to take life slow.  We make progress here and then forget a lesson or two.

But it is with the most joy and hope that we are waiting to meet in earnest the baby who is, as I type, getting down-you might say-at her own personal dance party that can be found just above my bladder and just below my rib cage.  I am beginning the eighth month of this pregnancy and our daughter offers at every possible opportunity a reassurance of her vitality and strength. 

Praise be.  It is good to wait.

Just pokey?

When WJ was in the middle of his first year of preschool, I watched his class walking down the flight of stairs from the classroom to exit the building.  A group congregated outside, children in a line, holding hands with their partners.  They looked ready to walk to the park.  But the class did not yet move.  They were still waiting for WJ and the handful of other children trapped behind him as he dawdled down the stairs.  I watched this scene every day but on one particular day the preschool director stood next to me and asked, “Is WJ just pokey?”

WJ had always been a bit of a slowpoke.  A careful child.  Not a big risk-taker.

I saw it with my own eyes and wondered about it.  But hearing an educational professional make note turned my wondering into worrying.  I spent the next several months going over his developmental milestones in my head.  WJ had always reached gross motor markers just about the day before the parenting books said it was time to worry.  He was always within normal limits, but often at the very far end of those when it came to physical development.

At his four year-old check-up I mentioned my worries to his pediatrician.  I explained the school director’s questioning of his speed and a comment or two from his teachers about his avoidance of gross motor activities.  I explained my own worry about his speech development, which seemed to also be in this late but normal range.  I expected her to respond with her customary and reassuring every-child-is-unique kind of way.  Instead she took off her glasses and explained that if we had concerns in more than one developmental area, which we did—gross motor and speech, it would be wise to rule out any underlying cognitive issues and she wrote a referral for a complete battery of evaluations at the local child development institute. 

In shock, I went home and began scheduling appointments: developmental/cognitive assessment, speech evaluation, hearing test, language development assessment, occupational therapy evaluation, physical therapy evaluation. 

Here is what we found out.  WJ has some low muscle tone which makes some physical tasks more difficult for him to master.  Exactly what we had suspected.  There were no major problems but several of the evaluators suggested that a few months of therapy would help him build strength and muscle tone and help us as parents better know how to support his growth at home. 

What they suggested was true.  Within several months, we noticed WJ running and climbing with friends and fewer people asking me to translate his speech. 

Watching WJ work to exhaustion in his speech and physical therapy sessions that year brought me to a new level of understanding about what school must have been like for him.  That pokiness on the stairs manifested itself in other places in the classroom as well.  He would often be in the role of observer. Like a sports commentator, he liked to watch other children work and to talk about what they were doing but he was slippery about getting involved himself.  He took a lot of breaks, wandering around a bit.  WJ often seemed to be off in another world, daydreaming.

I began to wonder if these behaviors were the result of physical exhaustion.  Simple tasks like climbing up and down the stairs, sitting crisscross on the rug during circle time, controlling scissors and manipulating hard clay, all of these tasks were just a little harder for WJ than for most and took a little more of his physical energy to complete. 

While it may seem illogical to bring issues like climbing skills and running speed or a child’s grip on a crayon and ability to mold clay into the decision about school placement, I would argue that these issues are more important that we may think.  Physical and mental energy are connected.  If your body is tired, your mind is less available to learn, organize thinking and problem-solve. While it is true for all of us, I believe this affects young children especially because their coping skills are still so immature. Perhaps WJ’s adventures in La-La-Land were less about being a dreamy child and more about a lack of energy and strength.  As I researched this, I felt a stronger pull toward the decision to wait for kindergarten. 

With validation that WJ reaches milestones in the physical realm a little later than many children, we were able to see that some extra time to develop physically would help him to be ready to engage as actively as possible in the social and cognitive work of school.  You cannot rush development; you cannot teach strength.  But you can wait.  Growth takes time.