Earthmovers and Sandcastles

GABE: “Mom, I have a magic trick.”
ME: “Okay, go for it.”
GABE: “I’m going to pull a rabbit out of my hat.” [He reaches into the little hat, pulls out a plastic fern, and makes a comedic grimace.]
ME: “That’s pretty silly, dude.”
GABE (suddenly angry): “Mom! I have to be funny! I have to be like the magic guy at the Santa show! Remember?! He threw a beaver at us? I have to be like that!”
ME: “Okay! You’re funny! Good job!”
GABE (stomping off): “Funny…have to be…” [Turning and shouting] “And it’s not even magic! It’s just STUFF IN MY HAT!”

Sam brought home math homework tonight concerning money and making change. It’s a skill plenty of adults struggle with, I think, and Sam was not finding it intuitive at all. He got pretty frustrated, actually, especially when I went over the worksheet he’d finished and found that he hadn’t gotten a single answer correct. (I’d have stopped him long before that point if I’d realized how much he was struggling, but, alas, he didn’t let on to me at all.) So I went back over the assignment with him, and, you know, it’s not that easy a concept to explain; a practical skill like change-making has a way of becoming automatic, and the brain learns shortcuts that are difficult to break down into steps for those who don’t know how to do it. But we fumbled through. As usual, the best method for getting Sam to relax and stop fighting the work was to add in the element of story and make it as fun as possible; I growled with mock frustration as the imaginary bake sale customers kept coming to me with five-dollar bills, depleting my cash box, and he giggled wildly.

I have no idea how much he’ll retain of the math part, though, so I think we’ll play some more games with it this weekend. In the meantime, I had to chill him out a bit more, since he’s actually had a few nightmares about math class. That’s no way for an eight-year-old to live. His teacher had given each of the students a small gift card to the book store at our conferences before Thanksgiving, and at my encouragement, Sam chose The Chocolate Touch. Even though we’ve been whipping through the Wimpy Kid books, this new book made for a light diversion tonight, and I have faith he’ll sleep well now. On the other hand, when we finished reading, he was yawning hard…but craving sweets. Go figure. (I’d be lying if I tried to claim that by that point, I wasn’t having my own fantasies regarding the secret stash of gourmet dark chocolate in the cupboard. Shhhh.)

GABE: “I’m not a baby.”
ME: “No.”
GABE: “I’m five, so I’m a kid.”
ME: “How old is a baby?”
GABE: “Two. Or one.”
ME: “And you’re not two.”
GABE: “I hope you decide to have another baby.”
ME: “Um. Wouldn’t count on that.”
GABE: “I think you should!”
ME: “I like the babies I already have.”
GABE: “But…!”
ME: “I know, I know. You’re not a baby.”
But you’re MY baby.

No Comments »

Trackback This Post | Subscribe to the comments through RSS Feed