Dealing with the Christmas Tree
the boy
Basketball
The Boy's team is in the midst running drills when I walk in. They're going one-on-one from the top of the key. When it's his turn to take the offensive drill, he dribbles in, picks up the ball quite far from the basket, and tries to lob it over the defender. An air ball. And I can see the disappointment and disgust in his face.
He heads back to the backcourt line (I think that's what it's called) and stands in line for his next turn, but he seems to let anyone in front of him who wants to take an earlier turn. And there are plenty who want to.
Eventually, he drifts into the background as others excitedly take their turns, and he ends up leaning against the wall and watching the others. He pulls on his hoodie and sits down.
Later, when they're scrimmaging, he does the best he can with the knowledge he has, but the truth is, we never watch basketball so he’s got nothing to imitate. And I really know very little about the sport, so I'm of little help to him. He does his best, but it's clear the other boys have had lots of experience playing basketball in their neighborhood.
“I never get passes,” he'll say later in the car. "Because I'm just not as good as they are." All he sees are his deficits, and the lack of inclusion from other boys confirms it in his mind. When he does get a pass, it’s like he wants to get it out of his hands as fast as possible.
It's tough to watch: I can certainly relate. I was never that confident when I found myself playing basketball, and I hated playing with those who were much better. I, too, felt I was out of my comfort zone.
But the Boy soldiers through, going to each practice, giving it his best show.
"I admire you for that, buddy," I tell him on the way home.
"Thank you," he says, then adds after a moment, "I don't think basketball is for me."
Tuesday Back
The Girl went back to school today for the first time since Friday before last, as in January 5. It's been a tough ten days, and we still have issues ahead of us, but at least we're to a point where something of a normal life can return. I never missed ten days for an illness, but I missed significant time in the first semester because of having to go to the Feast of Tabernacles every year (along with the Feast of Trumpets and Atonement, which meant missing more school days). If I'd been as worried about my grades as L is about hers, that probably would have caused me more stress than it did. But then, the founder of our little sect died (38 years ago today, in fact), the new leader made a few changes, and the FOT (as we called it) became a thing of the past. Something the Girl doesn't have to worry about.
The Boy is still frustrated with his schedule this semester, particularly that he doesn't have PE anymore. In middle school, I hated PE. In the mid-eighties in Virginia (maybe not the whole state, but at least in our area), there was none of this "you can only fail once before high school" mentality that's the standard here. (There are benefits to that, to be sure, but I've had kids tell me, "I've already failed once. There's nothing you can do to me," and then promptly do nothing the entire year.) But we didn't have that, so kids could fail two or three times before getting to high school, which is why when I was in seventh grade (it was a junior high, with only two grades), there were two sixteen-year-old eighth graders. Dodgeball, which we played with those stinging rubber kickball balls, was utter hell. Those kids were strong. But fortunately, E doesn't have that worry, so he consequently loves PE.
Two ways my childhood was so very different from our children's.
Exploring
Life is about the moment, making the most of the now. Nothing new there.
But we tend to forget it in health emergencies (who can live in the now then?!),
shopping (it is a little meditative at times, but really, we could do without),
holidays (wonderful, but don't you get tired of them after a while and need a year's rest?),
and the like.
51
Growing up, birthdays were never of any importance to me. Our sect taught that the celebration of birthdays was a sinful vanity and that those truly trying to “be like Christ” would have no interest in shallow self-adulation. So I never once had a birthday party growing up, and I don’t really recall much acknowledgment of my birthday than “Hey, you’re nine today. Really growing up fast!”
One outcome of this is my apathy toward my own birthday. I've managed to adapt from my upbringing and realize that it is important for other people to have their birthdays recognized and celebrated, but I just don't really care that much about my own. I might use it as an occasion to splurge and buy a cigar that's a little pricier than what I normally have (time this evening for a beloved Partagas Black Label -- a beast of a cigar), but that's about it.
Saying all of that, though, makes me feel I'm somehow condemning Nana and Papa. But they were only following orders: the church taught; they followed. They thought they were doing the best for me. And really, how is it different from anyone else in any other religion? The religion has strictures; either its adherents follow them or they don't. "It's Friday. I really shouldn't eat meat," Babcia said just yesterday, illustrating that point perfectly. So I don't blame my parents in any sense of the word. But I am glad that I'm not raising them in such a strictly religious environment.
Is there a substantial difference between "Nobody's like me" and "Nobody likes me?" Is there anything more valuable than a friend, a real friend you can trust, and who can make your day brighter? Can there be anything more difficult to a young sixth grader than losing the only friend he's made in his new school (where either his elementary school friends don't go or they are on a different team)? No, the Boy's friend didn't die, but he's moving, and the Boy can't take it.
He's having such a hard time making friends because, in part, despite what I said above, we are raising our kids differently than most people around here. Football? I never watch it; E knows next to nothing about it. Video games? We never bought a console for either child. Restaurants? We rarely eat out. All the little things that kids can connect on, our kids don't have. L has made up for it. In high school, she's found her spot, and she even goes to Friday night football games. "I have no idea what's going on," she cheerily admits, "but I'm not going there for the game."
So the Boy has been having a hard time with his social life, a hard time with one boy in particular who seems to be using him, a hard time with so many things. And the Girl has been having some ridiculously painful (but thankfully, not long-term serious) medical issues that make it difficult to sleep at night. And last night, they both exploded, leaving all four of his sleep-deprived and exhausted -- physically, emotionally, and mentally.
That's why for most of the day, we stayed home, doing as little as possible. L's pain finally calmed down and she was able to sleep; K did some grocery shopping and then spent the rest of the day relaxing as the Girl slept, Babcia watched Polish TV on the computer, and the Boy and I played with his cars (first time in a long time we've done that).
In the evening, K wanted to head back to the store to get some kind of cake for me. The Girl, feeling better than she's felt in probably a week, decided to go with her. And so they lit some candles and sang "Sto Lat" for me.
And then the Boy gave me his gift: a bespoke card with a twenty dollar bill in it. I looked at K, thinking maybe she'd given it to him to tuck in there, but as little surprise as I, she shook her head. He was giving me his own money.
I just about lost it right there...
The Coming Hell
If only you knew the hell coming in the late evening…
Saturday’s Adventures
On the way to the basketball game, the Boy makes a comment about how many churches are around, and then turns the discussion to religion, remarking that Jesus has been dead 2000 years and has still not returned.
"Two thousand years is a long time," he suggests.
I simply agree.
He continues: "How do we even know that all that stuff happened?"
"What do you think?" again trying to remain non-committal.
"Well, they say they were there," he suggests.
"How do we know that?"
“Because that’s what they wrote." He stops to think about it for a moment and then asks, "But how do we know those documents are authentic?”
The short answer is, we don’t. The Gospels, despite the purported authorship the Bible affixes to them, are anonymous. Those names — Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John — appear only in documents from the third or fourth century if memory serves. But I say none of this. Instead, I simply respond, “That’s a very good question. What do you think?”
“Well, all the Christian scientists trying to prove that are biased. They want to prove it.”
For a moment, I think, “Wait, how did we get onto the topic of Christian Science, but I realize quickly what he means: he’s referring to apologists and Christian New Testament scholars who consistently make the arguments that support Christianity, explaining away the problems like the one of the gospels’ anonymous authorship. But his point is very salient: apologists are indeed biased. They are not seeking truth as much as seeking ways to buttress Christian belief, and many skeptics suggest that apologists are almost exclusively preaching to the choir, so to speak, giving believers answers to questions they might have rather than providing skeptics with evidence to overcome their skepticism.
These are all very good questions that will lead to some answers that might lead the Boy away from church teaching, but I am trying my best not to provide any answers.
We get to the game and immediately see what we’re up against: a bunch of guys eighth graders who are enormous and merciless. They tower over most of our boys.
Their brutality comes from the coach down: They begin applying full-court pressure in the second half when they already have a significant, and they would only begin doing that (I think) because their coach has instructed them to do so. Every time the opposition scores, the coach whoops and hollers like it's the greatest comeback in history. The final score is 13-22, and I hear the say to his team, "That was okay, but you missed a lot of easy baskets." Translation: "You beat them badly, but you should have beaten the ---- out of them." At least that's how I interpreted it as an objective observer...
End of the Break
The break is over: the kids go back tomorrow, with E starting his second semester in middle school and L beginning her last semester as a junior. Two facts that are hard to comprehend: the Boy is 11; the Girl just turned 17. One more hard-to-believe fact: the school year is half over now.
I went back to school today for a teacher’s workday. Walking down the halls this morning I had the realization that we only have a matter of months before the end-of-year testing kicks in, and few of my on-level kids are ready for it. Granted, they’ve made progress this first semester, but there’s still so much more to do. One of the frustrations I have with all this testing is that it’s heartlessly uniform in its expectations: growth doesn’t matter; improvement doesn’t register — everyone has to reach the same place at the same time. The kids who go from struggling to write a paragraph with more than three sentences to writing fully-formed Schaffer paragraphs that make a claim, provide evidence, and explain that evidence will still get a “Not Met” score at the end of the year even though they’ve grown more than the English Honors kids who will score “Exceeds Expectations.” The kids who had so many emotional issues that sitting in a class and focusing for more than a few moments who grow to the point that they can remain focused for ten minutes at a time and work collaboratively with their peers without getting off-topic for a full five minutes — they’ll still “fail” despite all the evidence I could provide to the contrary.
Basketball Practice
First Day 2024
