More Than Just a Plaque

When I started the blog -- back in 2005, can you believe it? -- my wife was very concerned that I maintain our privacy, especially in the case of the kids. She didn't want some Internet predator targeting us; that's one of the reasons I only use my first name here. Of course, we're not exactly on the main drag here; we don't get a lot of walk-in traffic. Virtually all the people who read this on any kind of regular basis are only here because I begged -- I mean invited -- them to read it.

Nevertheless, even though we're pretty much all friends here, I tend to avoid personal details, never even mentioning my family's names. The funny thing is, I'd guess that any regular reader -- if such there be -- has a pretty clear idea of who my daughter is. She has a really large personality; although as I've said, I don't want to write the Funny Kid Story blog, I can't resist sharing one once in awhile.

My son's a little less defined in these pages. Maybe it's just that he's harder to sum up briefly and my writing skills aren't up to it. In this blog he's probably mostly The Kid Who Used to Love Emeril and Always Gets Up at 7. Anyway, something happened this week that made me want to tell you something a little more substantial about him.

Our boy has had his share of struggles. He's sort of the classic ADHD kid, not exactly laserlike in his focus; he has some difficulty managing his emotions, particularly his frustration. He spent an extra year in preschool, kind of gathering himself both socially & academically for school. He was fairly successful in kindergarten, but in 1st he ran into a teacher who was pretty inflexible; he was always anxious, always behind the class -- and all she could say is 'work harder with him at home'.

Last spring he was so miserable that we started doing testing, medication, counseling... basically trying anything we could to throw him a life preserver. We also requested a 2nd-grade teacher who was known as nurturing and gentle.

She would give him hugs when he needed them. She told him over & over: it's just a piece of paper, it's nothing to get upset about. When he started to get edgy in class, she'd say, "OK, everybody up -- we're going to wiggle!" Or dance. Or go outside & run to the fence and back. In first grade, teacher conferences were: here's all the things he can't do; this year, every conference was "I love him, he's doing great."

And this past Tuesday I stood in a stuffy cafeteria and listened as she stood on stage and told the assembled kids and parents about my son: how at first he had been anxious and timid, how she had seen him grow in confidence and ability, how much she loved and would miss him. Then she called him up on stage and presented him with a plaque as the most improved student in her class.

I have to tell you -- no, literally, I feel like I have to -- that not only did I cry right there in front of everybody, but I was proud to. I had some success in school myself; I've had a decent career; my kids' births and adoptions were great thrills. But I don't think I've ever had such a surge of pride as I did that morning. He's not suddenly going to be on the path to valedictorian, and he's probably not going to win the Nobel or the Pulitzer, and all the other classes gave out the same three-dollar plaque. Never mind all that... Tuesday was his day, not to mention a huge day for me.